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THE  POETIC   YEAR  FOR   1916 


THE  POETIC  YEAR 

FOR  I916 

A  CRITICAL  ANTHOLOGY 

BY 

WILLIAM  STANLEY  ;BRAITHWAITE 

Author  o/"  "Lyrics  of  Life  and  Love,"    "The  House  of 
Falling  Leaves,"   etc. 

Editor  of  "Anthology   of   Magazine  Verse  for  1914," 

"Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse  for  1915," 

"Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse  for  1916," 

"The  Book  of  Elizabethan 

Verse,"   etc. 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


te  13 


gopybight,  1917, 

By  Smalx,,  Maynard  &  Company 
(incobpokated) 


TO 
PSYCHE  AND  CASSANDRA 


4  Z-  0  5  ^ 


B13 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  substance  of  the  chapters  in  this  book  ap- 
peared in  the  columns  of  the  Boston  Evening  Tran- 
script, in  a  series  of  articles  called  "  The  Lutanists 
of  Midsummer,"  and  in  the  poetry  reviews,  which  I 
contributed  during  1916,  to  that  paper,  and  are 
here  reprinted  by  courteous  permission. 

I  desire  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  Mr. 
Alain  LeRoy  Locke  for  many  helpful  suggestions. 

For  permission  to  quote  selections,  illustrating 
the  critical  opinions  in  this  volume,  I  wish  hereby 
to  express  my  obligation  to  the  following  publish- 
ers who  hold  the  copyright  of  the  books  of  poems : 

The  Macmillan  Company :  "  Go,  Spend  Your 
Penny,"  and  "  Flesh,  I  Have  Knocked,"  from 
"  Good  Friday  and  Other  Poems,"  by  John  Mase- 
field ;  "  The  Dark  House,"  "  Fragment,"  selections 
from  "  Flammonde,"  "  Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a 
Man  from  Stratford,"  "  Borkado,"  and  "  The 
Man  Against  the  Sky,"  from  "  The  Man  Against 
the  Sky,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson ;  selec- 
tions from  "  The  Great  Maze,"  by  Hermann  Hage- 
dorn ;  "  In  the  Cage,"  "  For  a  Dance,"  and  selec- 
tions from  "  The  Star,"  from  "  Songs  and  Sat- 
ires," by  Edgar  Lee  Masters ;  selections  from 
"  The  Story  of  Eleusis,"  by  Louis  V.  Ledoux ; 
"  Two  Travellers  in  the  Place  du  Vendome,"  "  An 

Aquarium,"  and  selections  from  "  The  Hammers," 

vii 


viii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

from  "  Men,  Women  and  Ghosts,"  by  Amy  Lowell ; 
"Spring  in  Ireland:  1916,"  and  selections  from 
"  Green  Branches,"  by  James  Stephens ;  poems 
number  XIV,  XXXII,  and  XLV,  from  "Fruit 
Gathering,"  by  Sir  Rabindranath  Tagore;  "Let 
Down  Your  Hair,"  and  "  The  Story,"  from  "  The 
Quest,"  by  John  G.  Neihardt;  and  selection  from 
"  Earth  Tedium,"  from  "  Earth  Triumphant  and 
Other  Tales  in  Verse,"  by  Conrad  Aiken. 

Houghton,  Mifflin  Company :  "  The  Heritage," 
"  Harvest  Moon,  1914,"  and  "  Harvest  Moon, 
1916,"  from  "  Harvest  Moon,"  by  Josephine  Pea- 
body  Marks ;  "  Au  Quatrieme :  Rue  des  Ecoles," 
"  FalHng  Asleep,"  and  "  To  a  Garden  in  April," 
from  "Idols,"  by  Walter  Conrad  Arensberg; 
"  Bain's  Cats  and  Rats,"  and  "  Zudora,"  from 
"  Turns  and  Movies,"  by  Conrad  Aiken ;  "  Sea 
Gods,"  from  "  Sea  Garden :  Imagist  Poems,"  and 
"  Some  Imagist  Poets,  1916,"  by  H.  D. ;  "  White 
Symphony,"  "The  Front  Door,"  and  "Epi- 
logue," from  "  Goblins  and  Pagodas,"  by  John 
Gould  Fletcher;  and  "The  Happiest  Heart," 
from  "  Poems,"  by  John  Vance  Cheney. 

Henry  Holt  and  Company :  "  What  He  Knew 
of  Simple  Simon,"  "  Franklin  P.  Adams,"  selec- 
tions  from   "  Vachel   Lindsay,"   from   " and 

Other  Poets,"  by  Louis  Untermeyer ;  "  The  Lis- 
teners," "  An  Epitaph,"  from  "  The  Listeners  and 
Other  Poems,"  and  "  OfF  the  Ground,"  from  "  Pea- 
cock Pie,"  by  Walter  de  la  Mare, 

The  Century  Company:  "The  Sin  Eater," 
"  The    Orient,    Half    Morocco,"    selection    from 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  ix 

"The  Night  Court,"  and  "Revelation,"  from 
"The  Night  Court  and  Other  Verse,"  by  Ruth 
Comfort  Mitchell;  and  "Creed,"  "Sonnet,"  and 
selection  from  "  Laughter,"  from  "  War  and 
Laughter,"  by  James  Oppenheim. 

Yale  University  Press :  "  Overland  Route," 
and  "  Cleared,"  from  "  The  Overland,"  by  Freder- 
ick Mortimer  Clapp ;  and  "  A  Summer  Day,"  and 
selections  from  "  The  Testament  of  William  Win- 
dune,"  from  "  The  Testament  of  William  Win- 
dune,"  by  James  H.  Wallis. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons :  Sonnets  I,  XV,  XLI, 
and  selections  from  sonnets  XXIII,  XXIVj 
XLVII,  from  "  The  Cycle's  Rim,"  by  Olive  Tilford 
Dargan ;  and  "  I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death," 
from  "  Poems  by  Alan  Seeger." 

John  Lane  Company :  Selections  from  "  The 
Fairy  Bride,"  by  Norreys  Jephson  O'Conor ;  and 
selections  from  "  Sea  and  Bay :  A  Poem  of  New 
England,"  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork. 

Princeton  University  Press :  "  Ganymede," 
from  "  A  Book  of  Princeton  Verse,"  contributed 
by  John  Pearle  Bishop. 

George  H.  Doran  Company :  "  Out  of  My  Liv- 
ing," "  The  Flirt,"  and  selections  from  "  Brother 
Angelico,"  "  Ulysses  in  Ithaca,"  and  "  Mary  of 
Egypt,"  from  "  Life  and  Living,"  by  Amelia 
Josephine  Burr. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons :  "  Invocation,"  "  To  a 
Cyclamen,"  "  Instinct  and  Reason,"  "  Saint  Cath- 
erine," and  "  Tomorrow,"  from  "  The  Book  of 
Winifred  Maynard." 


X  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  Knickerbocker  Press  (G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons):  "Between  the  Lines,"  and  "His  An- 
swer," from  "  The  Open  Door,"  by  Madeline 
Bridges. 

The  Manas  Press,  Rochester,  N.  Y. :  "  Triad," 
"Susanna  and  the  Elders,"  "Night  Winds," 
"  Amaze,"  "  The  Immortal  Residue,"  and  "  To  the 
Dead  in  the  Graveyard  Underneath  My  Window," 
from  "  Verse,"  by  Adelaide  Crapsey. 

DufEeld  and  Company :  "  The  Barber  Shop," 
and  "  Brown  Sands,"  from  "  Flashlights,"  by 
Mary  Aldis. 

Nicholas  L.  Brown:  "The  Body  of  the 
Queen,"  from  "  Two  Deaths  in  the  Bronx,"  by 
Donald  Evans ;  and  "  When  It  is  Night,"  and 
"  The  Merchant,"  from  "  Ephemers,"  by  Mitchell 
S.  Buck. 

Alfred  A.  Knopf:  "  In  the  Country,"  "  Man," 
"Catherine,"  "The  Two  Children,"  from  "The 
Collected  Poems  of  William  H.  Davies,"  "  Spring," 
from  "  Others :  An  Anthology  of  the  New  Verse," 
contributed  by  Hester  Sainsbury ;  '''  The  Next 
Drink,"  from  "  Others :  An  Anthology  of  the  New 
Verse,"  and  "  Fugue,"  *'  Credo,"  "  Overheard  in 
an  Asylum,"  from  "  Mushrooms,  A  Book  of  Free 
Forms,"  by  Alfred  Kreymborg. 

The  Four  Seas  Company:  Selections  from 
"  The  Jig  of  Forslin,"  by  Conrad  Aiken. 

The  Roadside  Press :  "  Coming  Home,"  from 
"  The  Chicago  Anthology,"  contributed  by  E. 
Sewell  Hill. 

The  Astor  Press:  "Kinship,"  from  "The 
Hour  Has  Struck,"  by  Angela  Morgan. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xi 

Barse  and  Hopkins :  "  The  Haggis  of  Private 
McPhee,"  from  "  Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man," 
by  Robert  W.  Service. 

Sherman,  French  and  Company :  "  The  Femi- 
nist's Alphabet,"  and  "The  Tragedy,"  from 
"  Cat's  Cradle,"  by  H.  Stanley  Haskins. 

Richard  G.  Badger :  "  Mammy-Lore,"  and 
"Youth,"  from  "The  Edge  of  the  World,"  by 
CaroHne  Stern ;  and  selections  from  "  The  Fledg- 
ling Bard  and  the  Poetry  Society,"  by  George 
Reginald  Margetsen. 

To  David  O'Neil  I  am  indebted  for  the  permis- 
sion to  use  his  poem,  "  To  a  Mocking  Bird,"  from 
his  volume,  "  A  Cabinet  of  Jade,"  shortly  to  be 
published.  From  Lord  Dunsany's  "  A  Legend  of 
the  Dawn,"  which  appears  in  his  volume,  "  Time 
and  the  Gods,"  I  have  quoted  a  passage  with  the 
permission  of  the  publishers,  John  W.  Luce  and 
Company. 

Small,  Maynard  and  Company :  "  April  Now 
in  Morning  Clad,"  "  A  New  England  June,"  and 
selections  from  "  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  Harvard, 
1914,"  from  "  April  Airs,"  and  "  Carnations  in 
Winter,"  and  one  stanza  from  "  A  Windflower," 
from  "Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre,"  by  Bliss  Car- 
man ;  "  The  Dark  Way,"  by  Joseph  Mary  Plun- 
kett;  "Of  a  Post-Patriot,"  and  "Wishes  for  My 
Son,"  by  Thomas  MacDonagh ;  and  "  Hamilcar 
Barca,"  by  Sir  Roger  Casement,  from  "  Poems  of 
the  Irish  Revolutionary  Brotherhood,"  edited  by 
Padraic  Colum  and  Edward  J.  O'Brien. 


CONTENTS 

Chapteb  Paqb 

Introduction.   We  discuss  the  poetry  of —  ....       xv 

I    Magic  Casements 1 

Bliss  Carman,  Walter  de  la  Mare,  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 

II    The  Reseiarch  Artifice 25 

Mitchell  S.  Buck,  Elsa  Barker,  Cuthbert  Wright,  Donald  Evans 

III  The  SACimDOTAL  Wonder  of  Life 33 

Norreys  Jephson  O'Conor,  Mary  Aldis,  John  Masefield 

IV  The  Chant  op  Armageddon 48 

J.  C.  Squire,  A.  St.  John  Adcock,  Thomas  MacDonagh,  P.  H. 
Pearse,  Joseph  Mary  Plunkett,  Sir  Roger  Casement 

V    Peacock  Pie 62 

High  Tide;  Songs  of  Joy  and  Vision  from  the  Present-Day 
Poets  of  America  and  Great  Britain,  Others,  An  Anthology  of 
the  New  Verse,  A  Book  of  Princeton  Verse,  Catholic  Anthology, 
Some  Imagist  Poets,  1916,  The  Chicago  Anthology 

VI    Clotho,  Lachesis,  Atropos  &  Co 101 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  Hermann  Hagedorn 

VII    Selling  Aladdin's  Lamp 123 

Edgar  Ijee  Masters,  Conrad  Aiken 

VIII    The  Idol-Breakers  (other  peoples') 149 

Adelaide  Crapiey,  John  Gould  Fletcher,  Alfred  Kreymborg, 
Walter  Conrad  Arensberg 

IX    The  Nostalgia  op  Bournes 187 

Charles  Wharton  Stork,  Frederick  Mortimer  Clapp,  Caroline 

Stern 

X    "The  Glory  that  was  Greece" 214 

Witter  Bynner,  I^ouis  V.  Ledoux 
XI    The  Jest  of  Dkhocracy 229 

\   Louis   Untermeyer,  H.   Stanley  Haskins,   Madeline   Bridges, 
A.  George  Reginald  MJrgeston 

XII    Footnotes  to  Reality 252 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr,  Winifred  Maynard 

xiii 


CnAPTEB  Page 

XIII  Romantics:  Half  Morocco  8vo 278 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell,  Amy  Lowell 

XIV  The  Dream  on  its  Throne 306 

James    Oppenheim,   James    Stephens,    Josephine    Preston 
Peabody 

XV    "A  Few  Brave  Drops  were  Ours" 335 

Alan  Seeger,  Robert  W.  Service 

XVI    LusTRAL  Waters 349 

Sir  Rabindranath  Tagore,  Olive  Tilford  Dargan 

XVII    Patrins 364 

William  H.  Davies,  John  G.  Neihardt,  Donald  Evans 

XVIII    In  Gloria  Mundi      375 

James   H.   Wallis,   Conrad  Aiken 

XIX    Apologia 39i8 

Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse  for  1916 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 
WE  DISCUSS  THE  POETRY  OF 


Need  I  say  a  word  for  the  plan  and  substance 
of  this  book?  One  moment  I  think  I  ought,  and 
the  next  that  I  ought  not.  But  since  the  begin- 
ning is  made,  the  end  ought  to  be  reached.  It 
might  be  reached  bj  simply  saying  —  here's  the 
book !  Still,  there's  more  than  the  book  here,  I 
think.  There's  an  experiment  —  and  that  is  al- 
ways a  dangerous  thing  in  literature.  Then, 
there's  myself  in  the  experiment,  and  this  ego  is  an 
aggravation  to  some  critics  of  American  poetry. 
In  every  book,  the  ego  is  the  dominant  note  —  or 
else  there  would  be  no  books,  no  literature,  really 
no  life.  The  world  is  a  clash  of  egos  —  some  as 
thin  as  air,  others  as  solid  as  water.  Both  types 
are  necessary  —  and  the  old  world  goes  its  way. 

I  suspect,  some  day,  it  will  be  said  of  me  that 
"  he  was  that  ineffectual  critic  who  beat  his  pen  in 
the  luminous  void  of  appreciation."  I  should  like 
nothing  better,  for  an  epitaph.  The  one  worth- 
while thing  in  life  is  to  have  a  passion.  If  you 
have  that,  intuition  is  a  surer  guide  to  wisdom  than 
philosophy.  It  may  lead  to  destruction,  but  the 
path  will  be  strewn  with  dreams,  and  dreams  are 
the  only  seeds  of  human  aspiration.  If  it  arrives 
at  the  goal,  which  it  very  often  does,  the  fabric  of 

XV 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

success  will  be  mostly  woven  with  the  gray  threads 
of  failure.  Nothing  is  perfect  but  the  will  to  do. 
We  will  to  do  from  some  divine  and  eternal  im- 
pulse: that  is  our  passion.  What  follows  in  ac- 
tion or  method,  is  the  attempt  of  our  humanity, 
with  its  checks  and  limitations,  to  embody  in  the 
terms  of  the  world  the  realities  of  the  spirit. 
Thus  life  is  all  —  and  always  —  a  mystical  ven- 
ture. 

And  the  symbols  of  this  mystical  venture  are 
more  clearly  defined  in  the  art  of  poetry  than  in 
any  other  form  of  human  expression.  Art  is  not 
the  end,  but  the  means  of  this  expression.  Art 
changes,  but  the  aims  of  art  never  do.  The  im- 
portant thing  in  all  this  is  not  to  engage  the 
greater  part  of  one's  energies  upon  the  means  of 
art  but  upon  the  ends  for  which  the  art  exists. 
It  is  a  straight  and  narrow  path  to  follow,  because 
upon  both  sides  of  the  way  the  walls  of  prestige 
and  tradition  restrict  the  discernment  of  new 
values.  Contemporary  achievement  has  always 
labored,  and  will  always  continue  to  labor,  under 
the  tyranny  of  the  past.  But  it  is  not  the 
tyranny  of  substance ;  it  is  the  tyranny  of  form, 
which  puts  the  present  at  a  disadvantage  with  the 
past.  Art  is  one,  and  the  highest,  form  of  the 
manifestation  of  the  spirit  of  life.  The  spirit  of 
life,  whatever  its  mode  or  quality,  never  changes, 
but  its  manifestations  do,  and  the  art  which  em- 
body those  manifestations  must  be  rendered  in 
terms  of  contemporary  experience. 

Experience  is  what  I  have  most  tried  to  disen- 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

gage  from  the  embodiments  of  a  particular  art, 
in  this  book.  Let  us  suppose  this  experience  is  a 
kind  of  fabric  —  woven  of  dream,  vision,  imagina- 
tion, observation,  of  physical  and  spiritual  emo- 
tion —  and  ask  if,  being  an  abstraction,  like  spirit, 
the  world  has  worn  it  threadbare,  as  we  wear  a 
garment  on  the  body?  Take  the  common  experi- 
ence of  love:  does  it  really  differ  more  in  spirit  in 
the  twentieth  century  than  it  did  in  the  sixteenth? 
No ;  but  the  social  environment  having  changed, 
men  and  women  conform  to  it  in  their  external, 
emotional  relationships.  And  what  I  mean  to  in- 
sist upon  is,  that  except  for  a  few  supreme  re- 
citals, the  contemporary  poet  has  an  original  sub- 
stance to  deal  with,  and  can  deal  with  it  with  all 
the  intensity  and  passion,  as  any  poet  of  the  past. 
It  is  the  function  of  the  critic  to  acknowledge  the 
achievement  not  with  the  tape-measure  of  rules 
and  formulas,  but  as  a  personal  discovery  of  the 
secrets  and  mysteries  of  life  being  expressed 
through  art.  If  the  art  is  not  adequate,  they 
will  remain  hidden.  And  this  same  point  of  view 
applies  to  the  interpretation  of  every  other  human 
experience. 

This  is  what  I  have  tried  to  do  in  the  following 
pages ;  how  crudely  sometimes,  how  successfully  at 
others,  I  am  well  aware.  What  I  have  most  tried 
to  avoid,  in  any  view  expressed,  is  dogmatism.  I 
have  been  absolute  in  my  point  of  view  time  and 
again:  but  then  I  have  merely  held  the  position, 
and  not  attempted  to  advance  it  ruthlessly.  I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  surrender  the  position  to  any 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

one  who  can  take  it  on  the  same  terms  of  spiritual 
interpretation  —  but  they  must  be  bold  enough  to 
attack  me  in  front,  and  not  from  the  rear. 

The  conversational  scheme  of  the  book  may,  or 
may  not,  interest  some  readers.  Poetry  is  a  hu- 
man thing,  and  it  is  time  for  the  world  —  and  es- 
pecially our  part  of  the  world  —  to  regard  it  as 
belonging  to  the  people.  It  sprang  from  the  folk, 
and  passed  when  culture  began  to  flourish  into  the 
possession  of  a  class.  Now  culture  is  passing  from 
a  class  to  the  folk,  and  with  it  poetry  is  return- 
ing to  its  original  possessors.  It  is  in  the  spirit  of 
these  words  that  we  discuss  the  poetry  of  the  year. 
There  are  omissions  from  the  year's  publications, 
which  I  regret,  and  hope  to  make  up  if  this  work 
continues  as  a  supplementary  volume  to  the  "  An- 
thology of  Magazine  Verse."  No  inference  of  de- 
preciation must  be  drawn  because  certain  volumes 
are  excluded  from  examination.  Time  and  cir- 
cumstances have  had  something  to  do  with  what 
may  seem  to  many  an  arbitrary  selection  of  titles. 

W.  S.  B. 

Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
March  2,  1917. 


THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 


THE  POETIC  YEAR 
FOR  1916 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS 

Have  you  been  drunk  with  April  weather? 
Then  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  rapturously  in- 
toxicated with  the  charming  experience  of  listen- 
ing to  Psyche  quoting  from  Bliss  Carman's 
"  April  Airs  " : 

April  now  in  morning  clad 
Like  a  gleaming  oread, 
With  the  south  wind  in  her  voice. 
Comes  to  bid  the  world  rejoice. 

With  the  sunlight  on  her  brow. 
Through  her  veil  of  silver  showers, 
April  o'er  New  England  now 
Trails  her  robe  of  woodland  flowers, — 

Violet  and  anemone; 
While  along  the  misty  sea. 
Pipe  at  lip,  she  seems  to  blow 
Haunting  airs  of  long  ago. 

It  was  an  inspiration  for  me,  beyond  the  mere  ex- 
perience, because  it  brought  to  birth  a  resolution 
which  became  a  joyous  fact. 

1 


2  THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

It  was  a  happy  accident  that  discovered  and 
won  for  me  the  hospitality  of  Laurel  Farm,  rest- 
ing there  in  the  North  with  its  western  acres  run- 
ning down  to  the  Merrimac  River.  It  spreads 
eastward  from  the  house  by  the  high  road,  to 
the  wooded  hills  covering  eight  or  ten  miles,  to 
euphonious  Derry  with  its  famous  academy  and  as- 
sociations of  our  New  England  Theocritus,  Robert 
Frost,  nestling  in  the  New  Hampshire  landscape. 
We  entered  the  woods  by  the  Derry  Road,  the  only 
highway  crossing  eastward  from  the  trolley  line 
which  runs  from  Nashua  to  Manchester,  and  on 
either  side  of  this  ascending  and  twisting  path- 
way were  thick  woods  of  hemlocks,  birches,  poplars 
and  pines,  shading  running  streams  and  silent 
sombre  pools.  This  main  road,  now  lifting,  then 
lying  flat  for  a  distance  on  the  crest  of  a  rise, 
and  sometimes  like  an  open  current  of  brown  sand 
bordered  for  stretches  by  low  fields  of  bushes  and 
innumerable  varieties  of  wild  flowers,  ran  in  freak- 
ish windings  to  Derry.  All  along  the  way  side- 
paths,  which  are  sometimes  scarcely  more  than 
secret  footways,  and  at  others  the  width  of  wheel- 
ruts  over  which  lumbermen  and  farmers  take  short 
cuts,  go  twisting  north  and  south,  sloping  and 
turning  into  the  heart  of  the  woods.  Under  the 
thick  and  tangled  boughs  of  the  trees  the  ground 
is  rich  with  nature's  carpeting  of  every  design 
of  moss  and  fern ;  the  open  spaces,  naturally  so, 
or  due  to  the  cutting  of  timber,  or  forest  fires,  are 
filled  with  every  variety  of  wild  flowers,  and  the 
thick,  tangled,  swampy  hollows  massed  with  moun- 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  3 

tain  laurel.  A  short  distance  up  the  Derry  Road 
from  the  car  line,  is  the  neglected  cemetery,  on 
the  crest  of  a  hill,  completely  encircled  by  the 
woods. 

Just  beyond  the  cemetery,  where  the  ground 
is  level  for  a  stretch,  a  branch  road  turns  south- 
east from  the  main  highway  through  the  woods ; 
the  latter  widens  at  this  point,  and  on  the  left  is 
a  considerable  clearing  where  the  forest  fire  of 
last  year  bequeathed  its  heritage  of  charred  tree 
trunks,  standing  desolate  and  ghostly  against  the 
shimmering  and  luxuriant  colors  of  the  woods 
beyond.  On  the  south  side  of  the  road,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  behind  the  cemetery,  is  a  pine  grove,  and 
in  our  fancy, —  the  fancy,  I  should  say, —  of 
Psyche  who  suggested  it,  we  had  a  fairy  belief  that 
some  New  England  Academus  had  set  it  there  for 
our  discussion  of  poetry. 

There  were  four  of  us  in  the  little  group,  and 
our  common  love  for  the  art  of  poetry  suggested 
a  weekly  meeting  in  the  grove  to  discuss  the  books 
we  had  all  agreed  upon  reading.  "  It  is  a  good 
way,"  I  remarked,  "  to  examine  the  poetry  of  the 
year  from  different  points  of  view,  resulting  in  a 
sort  of  collective  judgment.  Out  of  the  flood  of 
books  that  pour  from  the  press,  we  will  select 
sixty  or  seventy  volumes  as  representative.  We 
will  take  a  certain  number  a  week :  it  might  be  two, 
three,  four,  five  or  six.  I  will  see  that  copies  of 
the  books  are  distributed  around  not  less  than  one 
week  ahead  of  our  meeting;  sometimes  two  or 
three  weeks  will  intervene  for  careful  study."     I 


4  THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

made  up  my  mind  to  record  these  discussions,  and 
the  setting  as  well,  with  all  those  other  touches  of 
human  character  and  mood  which  never  fail  to  en- 
liven and  give  color  to  the  serious  business  of  art 
and  life.  If  this  little  book  needs  an  apology,  it 
is  at  least  stated,  in  the  foregoing  sentence. 

I  gave  fanciful  names  to  my  companions,  Greek 
names  which  I  am  persuaded  symbolized  the  spirit 
of  each.  There  was  nothing  Psyche  touched  but 
made  its  soul  apparent.  Her  wood-lore  was 
beautiful  and  thorough ;  the  very  spirit  of  flowers, 
birds  and  trees  was  evoked  when  she  went  among 
them.  Our  other  companion  of  her  sex  was  Cas- 
sandra, and  we  gave  her  this  name  not  because 
her  forebodings  were  gloomy,  but  merely  for  her 
prophesying  disposition,  which  was  always  build- 
ing air-castles.  If  Psyche,  as  a  very  human  in- 
dividual, had  a  passion,  she  secreted  it  in  her 
dreamy  temperament,  though  from  its  hiding  it 
sometimes  burst  with  a  force  that  quickly  spent 
itself.  She  was  an  artist  in  paint  and  clay,  who 
hid  her  talents  as  she  hid  her  passions.  Cas- 
sandra's passion  was  music,  and  her  attitude 
towards  life  was  in  the  terms  of  melody.  Life 
surprised  her  most,  I  think,  in  its  handling  of 
faiths ;  Fate  would  sometimes  pull  her  back  from 
the  extremities  of  devotion  and  confidence,  leaving 
her  a  little  dazed  with  disappointment.  It  was 
always  a  mystery  to  her  that  there  might  be  two 
or  three  faces  to  the  character  of  a  person,  and 
that  the  one  she  knew  might  not  be  the  soul's  true 
countenance.     Where  Psyche  was   wistfully  wise 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  5 

through  intuition,  Cassandra  was  winsomely 
ignorant  through  sympathy.  The  other  mem- 
ber, besides  myself,  of  our  little  group  was  Jason 
of  the  heroic  dreams  and  adventuresome  spirit,  he 
who  was  always  leading  an  argonaut  of  emotions 
to  the  Colchis  of  mystery  in  the  hope  of  bring- 
ing back  the  golden  fleece  of  beauty.  We  knew 
him  to  be  all  this  beneath  an  exterior  skeptical 
and  sardonic. 

He  was  restless  in  the  bonds  of  a  tranquillity 
that  chafed  the  hidden  spirit  of  his  being.  When 
the  war  broke  with  such  fury  over  Europe  he  and 
his  mother  were  on  the  high  seas  returning  from 
Paris ;  his  wish,  I  should  say  his  passion,  was,  on 
landing  at  New  York,  to  take  the  next  steamer 
back  to  Europe  and  join  the  Foreign  Legion. 
But  his  mother  would  not  have  it.  He  was  all 
she  had,  and  though  she  lived  in  New  York  dur- 
ing the  winter  with  occasional  weeks  in  Florida 
or  California,  and  at  various  New  England  water- 
ing places,  through  the  hot  weather,  when  not 
abroad,  he  roamed  about  at  all  seasons  and  places. 
For  a  year  he  stood  the  pressure  of  his  desire  to 
offer  his  services  to  France,  with  an  uneasy  con- 
science as  he  remarked,  for  the  sake  of  national 
pride  and  honor  which  he  believed  was  humbled 
with  the  declaration  of  neutrality  in  the  face  of 
Belgium's  rape,  and  then  proposed  to  join  a  Har- 
vard unit.  He  wrote  his  mother  a  pleading  let- 
ter, but  against  her  denial  he  could  not  act.  I 
discovered  him  lolling  about  New  England,  pour- 
ing his  wounded  soul  out  in  execrable  war  poems, 


6  THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

which  he  showed  me  in  a  moment  of  confidence, 
celebrating  the  cause  of  the  Allies,  praising  the 
valor  and  spirit  of  France,  and  rebuking  his  own 
country  for  throwing  away  the  greatest  oppor- 
tunity destiny  had  proffered  her  in  safe-guarding 
and  preserving  the  ideals  of  democracy.  This  was 
Jason,  a  kind  of  modern  Jaques  in  spirit,  wander- 
ing rudderless  in  a  world  of  disrupted  ideals,  ach- 
ing patiently  beneath  the  reserve  he  presented  to 
it,  but  loving  his  own  dreams  exquisitely,  with  his 
soul  listening  secretly  for  the  mysterious  call  of 
adventure  that  never  sounded.  He  loved  poetry 
passionately,  and  knew  it  profoundly,  and  his 
greatest  sorrow,  at  this  particular  time,  next  to 
not  being  allowed  to  fight  for  France,  was  his 
lack  of  ability  to  write  good  poetry. 

"  Isn't  it  perfectly  delicious,"  observed  Psj'che, 
"  to  be  here  this  glorious  June  day,  with  all  the 
world  of  materialism  shut  out  and  all  the  world  of 
spirit  flowing  in  upon  us?  I  used  to  wonder  why 
it  was  that  poets  call  the  woods,  so  full  of  sing- 
ing birds,  the  shrill  and  piping  music  of  insects,  a 
world  of  silence.  Everything  about  is  teeming 
with  gay  and  ecstatic  speech.  I  suppose  it  is 
the  inner  world  of  spirit,  man's  and  nature's,  that 
gives  the  outer  senses  that  feeling  of  quietude." 

The  spell  of  silence,  as  Psyche  remarked,  was 
upon  us,  as  we  sat  under  the  canopy  of  pines. 

"  It  is  really  too  satisfying  to  break,"  I  haz- 
arded, to  test  the  interest  in  our  program. 

"  '  Charmed,   magic   casements   opening  on   the 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  7 

foam  — '  "  Jason  quoted.  "  You  see  Keats  knew 
the  value  of  silence  which  he  framed  in  that  phrase 
for  the  soul  to  look  through  upon  wonder  and  mys- 
tery, two  very  active  forces." 

"  Are  we  to  believe  that  life  and  nature  are 
dreams,  fitted  with  magic  casements,  through 
which  we  look  —  that  is  our  souls  look  —  to  see 
the  meaning  and  mystery  of  things  ? "  asked 
Psyche. 

*'  Yes,"  I  answered  her.  "  And  only  poets  know 
the  secret  of  building  such  magical  windows.  But 
some  have  very  special  kind  of  window-panes  for 
magnifying  and  clarifying  the  vistas  of  dreams. 
Don't  you  think  our  little  group  of  poets  chosen 
for  discussion  to-day  have  special  virtues  in 
magical  craftsmanship?  "  I  asked  my  companions. 

"  I  think  all  of  us  will  concede  that,"  Jason 
spoke  up,  "  though  I  will  not  concede  that  other 
virtues  are  always  in  entire  harmony.  In  spite  of 
opinion,  I  should  say,  that  Miss  Reese  is  quite  the 
most  perfect  in  harmonizing  these  virtues.  Mr.  de 
la  Mare  makes  a  good  second,  and  I  will  grant 
you  about  Mr.  Carman  that  he  — " 

"  Satisfies  my  sense  of  magic,"  interrupted  Cas- 
sandra, "  because  he  makes  truth  felicitous,  a 
habit  some  modern  poets  feign  to  scorn." 

"  I  agree  with  Cassandra,"  I  said ;  "  but  would 
like  to  stress  the  nature  element  which  gives  the 
spirit  to  that  felicity." 

"  The  spirit  seems  pretty  worn  in  '  April 
Airs,' "  Jason  gave  as  his  opinion.  "  For  in- 
stance, this  lyric  on  *  A  New  England  June,'  may 


8  THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

be  delicate  and  elusive,  but  is  it  vivid  with  the 
sense  of  nature  which  Mr.  Carman  gave  to  a  num- 
ber of  earlier  lyrics? 

"  These  things  I  remember 
Of  New  England  June, 
Like  a  vivid  day-dream 
In  the  azure  noon. 
While  one  haunting  figure 
Strays  through  every  scene. 
Like  the  soul  of  beauty 
Through  her  lost  demesne. 

"  Gardens  full  of  roses 
And  peonies  a-blow 
In  the  dewy  morning. 
Row  on  stately  row, 
Spreading  their  gay  patterns. 
Crimson,  pied  and  cream. 
Like  some  gorgeous  fresco 
Or  an  Eastern  dream, 

"  Nets  of  waving  sunlight 
Falling  through  the  trees; 
Fields  of  gold-white  daisies 
Rippling  in  the  breeze ; 
Lazy  lifting  groundswells, 
Breaking  green  as  jade 
On  the  lilac  beaches. 
Where  the  shore-birds  wade. 

"  Orchards  full  of  blossom, 
Where  the  bob-white  calls 
And  the  honeysuckle 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  9 

Climbs  the  old  gray  walls ; 
Groves  of  silver  birches, 
Beds  of  roadside  fern, 
In  the  stone-fenced  pasture 
At  the  river's  turn. 

'  Out  of  every  picture 
Still  she  comes  to  me 
With  the  morning  freshness 
Of  the  summer  sea, — 
A  glory  in  her  bearing, 
A  sea-light  in  her  eyes. 
As  if  she  could  not  forget 
The  spell  of  Paradise. 

Thrushes  in  the  deep  woods. 
With  their  golden  themes. 
Fluting  like  the  choirs 
At  the  birth  of  dreams. 
Fireflies  in  the  meadows 
At  the  gate  of  Night, 
With  their  fairy  lanterns 
Twinkling  soft  and  bright. 

Ah,  not  in  the  roses. 
Nor  the  azure  noon. 
Nor  the  thrushes'  music. 
Lies  the  soul  of  June. 
It  is  something  finer. 
More  unfading  far, 
Than  the  primrose  evening 
And  the  silver  star ; 

Something  of  the  rapture 
My  beloved  had. 


10        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

When  she  made  the  morning 
Radiant  and  glad, — 
Something  of  her  gracious 
Ecstasy  of  mien, 
That  still  haunts  the  twilight. 
Loving  though  unseen. 

"  When  the  ghostly  moonlight 
WalJcs  my  garden  ground, 
Like  a  leisurely  patrol 
On  his  nightly  round. 
These  things  I  remember 
Of  the  long  ago. 
While  the  slumbrous  roses 
Neither  care  nor  know. 

It  is  all  there  but  the  vividness  of  touch  which 
brightens  such  lines  as  these,"  —  Jason  went  on 
quoting  from  memory : 

"  Between  the  roadside  and  the  wood. 
Between  the  dawning  and  the  dew, 
A  tiny  flower  before  the  sun. 
Ephemeral  in  time,  I  grew  — 


or 


> 


Your  carmine  flakes  of  bloom  to-night 
The  fire  of  wintry  sunsets  hold; 

Again  in  dreams  you  burn  to  light 
A  far  Canadian  garden  old. 

The  blue  north  summer  over  it 
Is  bland  with  long  ethereal  days; 

The  gleaming  martins  wheel  and  flit 

Where  breaks  vour  sun  down  orient  ways. 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  11 

There   -when  the  gradual  twilight  falls. 

Through  quietude  of  dusk  afar. 
Hermit  antiphonal  hermit  calls 

From  hills  below  the  first  pale  star. 

Then  in  your  passionate  Love's  foredoom 
Once  more  your  spirit  stirs  the  air. 

And  you  are  lifted  through  the  gloom 
To  warm  the  coils  of  her  dark  hair." 


«  \r. 


You  scarcely  make  out  your  case,  Jason,"  I 
said.  "  The  main  thing  is,  that  Mr.  Carman, 
whatever  you  think  of  his  infusion,  has  lost  none 
of  his  magic.  His  muse  came  out  of  the  North, 
bringing  with  it  all  of  the  romantic  qualities  which 
a  northern  imagination  possesses.  There  the 
'  emerald  twilights  '  are  more  lucid  and  transpar- 
ent ;  April  bugles  with  a  rapture  more  intense,  and 
a  pain  more  exquisitely  arousing,  than  the  pas- 
sionate maturing  of  southern  climes.  Hill,  vale, 
meadow  and  sea  are  touched  with  a  glamour  and 
magic,  at  the  heart  of  which  is  a  wonder  white  and 
mysterious ;  something  half  elusive  with  sym- 
bolism, half  declarative  with  the  plain-song  of 
innocent  delight.  The  whole  feeling  is  one  of 
reticence  and  virginity  in  nature, —  fresh,  strong 
and  vivid ;  to  which  the  heart  gives  its  confidence 
of  dream  and  vision. 

"  This  substance  has  a  twofold  significance. 
There  is  the  exterior  delight  of  the  senses ;  pure, 
simple  witchery  of  associated  memories ;  the  will 
playing  upon  the  surface  of  experience,  arrayed  in 
all  the  illusions  worn  by  the  healthy  instincts  of 


12        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

man.  Interwoven  with  this  delight  of  the  senses 
is  a  natural  symbolism,  with  its  inexplicable  and 
supernatural  meanings.  Bliss  Carman's  poetry 
from  the  beginning  had  the  glamour  of  the  one 
and  the  magic  of  the  other.  He  gave  to  them  a 
felicity  of  expression." 

"  What  I  like  about  Bliss  Carman  is  not  his 
flowers,  but  his  bouquets,"  Jason  countered.  "  He 
is  a  poet  that  does  arrange  his  poems  with  some 
view  to  unity  of  effect." 

"  If  we  grant  you  that,"  Psyche  addressed  Ja- 
son, "does  it  dim  his  imaginative  vision.''  Such 
a  vision  as  Mr.  Carman's  does  not  dim  with  time. 
April  has  always  been  the  symbol  of  the  poet's 
dreams  of  life  and  nature.  From  the  first  to  the 
last  of  his  poetic  utterance  he  has  never  lost  his 
responsiveness  to  Nature's  mystery  and  charm. 
Her  enchantments  have  been  perennial,  and  the 
secret  of  it,  kept  so  profoundly  wise  all  these  years, 
is  in  these  four  lines  from  a  poem  in  '  April  Airs  ' : 

"  And  then  it  came  to  me, 
That  all  that  I  had  heard 
Was  my  own  voice  in  the  sea's  voice 
And  the  wind's  lonely  word. 

He  finds,  as  these  lines  confess,  his  own  voice  in 
all  the  elemental  things  of  the  world,  because  his 
w^isdom  and  aspiration  are  in  compact  with  their 
mysteries.  For  this  reason  he  is  aboundingly  ar- 
dent and  youthful ;  and  it  is  not  a  great  question 
wlicthcr  his  mood  is  grave  or  gay ;  the  felicity  of 
knowledge  and  the  lavish  bestowal  of  sympathy, 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  13 

makes  his  heart  and  soul  familiar  with  the  laws  or- 
daining the  secrets  of  nature." 

"  Take  such  a  poem  as  '  A  Mountain  Gate- 
way,' "  I  chimed  in  on  the  heels  of  Psyche's  re- 
marks. "  Doesn't  he  give  us  in  that  poem  a  more 
habitable  cabin  for  a  poet's  mind,  than  the  un- 
realizable Innisfree  of  Yeats?  His  description  and 
allurement  of  peace  (in  this  beautiful  poem),  is 
the  reward  of  the  faithful  trust  which  has  kept 
his  heart  sweet  and  his  mind  wistfully  confident 
through  the  rapid  changes  of  later  years." 

"  Yes,"  said  Psyche,  "  hasn't  he  in  that  single 
line  in  '  A  Mountain  Gateway,'  when  he  speaks  of 
the  '  unAvorn  ritual  of  eternal  things,'  hasn't  he, 
I  repeat,  stated  poetrj^'s  final  truth?  It  is  what 
he  heeds  and  hearkens  to.  Yet  sometimes  I  seem 
to  see  him  step  aside  a  little  wearily,  in  his  beauti- 
ful and  holy  regard  for  the  '  eternal  things  '  to  let 
the  blatant  note,  and  the  stridency  of  the  ultra- 
modern singer,  take  the  road.  It  puzzles  him  a 
little,  to  see  this  motley  figure  in  a  hurried  and 
arrogant  progress  trampling  down  his  prophetic 
wayside  flowers ;  disclaiming  a  fellowship  and  love 
that  loses  all  of  its  mystery  and  beauty  in  the 
blindness  and  noise  accompanying  him.  It  hurts 
Mr.  Carman  most  of  all  to  see  the  spirit  of  cul- 
ture gone  out  of  this  figure ;  the  reverence  for 
worth  and  age ;  the  regard  for  delicate  and  ex- 
quisite courtesies ;  for  in  these  things  is  the  es- 
sence of  his  desire  for  truth  and  beauty." 

"  I  daresay,"  interpolated  Jason,  "  it  was 
largely  this  '  motley  figure,'  as  Psyche  called  it, 


14        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

that  filled  the  poet's  mind  when  he  refers  to  the 
'  poisonous  weeds  of  artifice,'  in  the  '  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Poem,  Harvard,  1914?.'  He  has  a  particu- 
lar harangue  against  the  state  of  aff'airs  it  would 
give  me  a  delight  to  quote  because  it  might  well 
suit  a  melancholy  mood.  Listen,"  and  Jason  in 
his  fine  voice,  not  untouched  with  a  little  scorn,  re- 
cited : 

"  Defiling  Nature  at  her  sacred  source; 
And  there  the  questing  World-soul  could  not  stay, 
Onward  must  journey  with  the  changing  time, 
To  come  to  this  uncouth  rebellious  age. 
Where  not  an  ancient  creed  nor  courtesy 
Is  underided,  and  each  demagogue 
Cries  some  new  nostrum  for  the  cure  of  ills. 
To-day  the  unreasoning  iconoclast 
Would  scofF  at  science  and  abolish  art, 
To  let  untutored  impulse  rule  the  world. 
Let  learning  perish,  and  the  race  returns 
To  that  first  anarchy  from  which  we  came, 
When  spirit  moved  upon  the  deep  and  laid 
The  primal  chaos  under  cosmic  law." 

"  But  he  does  not  leave  the  poem  as  a  rebuke," 
Cassandra  reminded  Jason.  "  The  poet  has  faith 
that  sanity  and  balance  will  return;  that  the  old 
verities  will  again  possess  the  hearts  of  men.  For 
does  he  not  add, '  Have  we  not  the  key,' 

"  Whose  first  fine  luminous  use  Plotinus  gave, 
Teaching  that  ecstasy  must  lead  the  man? 
Three  things,  we  see,  men  in  this  life  require, 
(As  they  are  needed  in  the  universe)  ; 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  15 

First  of  all  spirit,  energy,  or  love, 

The  soul  and  mainspring  of  created  things ; 

Next  wisdom,  knowledge,  culture,  discipline. 

To  guide  impetuous  spirit  to  its  goal ; 

And  lastly  strength,  the  sound  apt  instrument, 

Adjusted  and  controlled  to  lawful  needs. 

The  next  world-teacher  must  be  one  whose  word 

Shall  reaffirm  the  primacy  of  soul, 

Hold  scholarship  in  her  high  guiding  place. 

And  recognize  the  body's  equal  right 

To  culture  such  as  it  has  never  known. 

In  power  and  beauty  serving  soul  and  mind. 

'  April  Airs,'  comes  to  us  with  this  teaching, 
whether  in  a  poem  with  its  didactic  appeal  as 
these  Phi  Beta  Kappa  lines,  or  in  some  wistful 
lyric  of  field  and  wood." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  Psyche,"  I  assented. 
"  And  in  spite  of  his  teaching  the  poet  does  not 
take  us  into  the  schoolroom  of  dry  exhortations, 
but  rather  out  into  the  open,  where  the  lessons 
are  from  nature's  own  lips.  He  is  bounteous  with 
her  beauties  and  delights,  with  her  mysteries  and 
magic  of  wind  and  flower,  of  roads  and  sky  and 
stream ;  for  among  these,  he  bade  us  in  a  verse  a 
long  while  ago,  to 

"  Let  loose  the  conquering  toiler  within  thee ; 
Know  the  large  rapture  of  deeds  begun ! 
The  joy  of  the  hand  that  hews  for  beauty 
Is  the  dearest  solace  beneath  the  sun." 


a 


That  would  all  be  very  well,"  commented  Ja- 
son, "  if  the  poet  really  showed  more  of  '  the  joy 


16         THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

of  the  hand  that  hews  for  beauty,'  than  I  have  been 
able  to  discover  in  these  later  poems  of  Mr.  Car- 
man's. Your  true  magician  of  casements,  to  my 
mind,  is  Miss  Reese.  You  will  wonder  why  I  am  of 
this  opinion  when  Mr.  de  la  Mare  has  a  more 
elaborate  recipe  for  spells.  The  reason,  I  can 
very  easily  state:  Miss  Reese  is  an  unconscious 
transmitter,  consequently  simpler,  and  wholly  un- 
der the  influence  of  the  angels.  I  do  not  deny  that 
Mr.  de  la  Mare  very  often  experiences  this  same 
state  of  reliance  upon  pure  imagination ;  but  quite 
often  he  takes  a  metaphysical  interest  in  his  sub- 
ject, stepping  outside  of  his  mood  to  watch  the 
flow  of  substance  into  form." 

"  And  Miss  Reese ^" 

"  Does  nothing  of  the  kind," —  Jason  completed 
Cassandra's  sentence  to  his  own  satisfaction. 
"  She  is  always  the  heart  of  her  song,  a  hidden 
force  you  never  catch  at  work.  She  can  tell  you 
the  secret  better  than  I,  and  I  am  going  to  let 
her  in  this  poem  '  To  a  Town  Poet  ' : 

"  Snatch  the  departing  mood ; 

Make  yours  its  emptying  reed,  and  pipe  us  still 
Faith  in  the  time,  faith  in  our  common  blood, 
Faith  in  the  least  of  good ; 
Song  cannot  fail  if  these  its  spirit  fill ! 

"  What  if  your  heritage  be 
The  huddled  trees  along  the  smoky  way ; 
At  a  streeet's  end  the  stretch  of  lilac-sea ; 
The  vendor,  swart  but  free, 
Crying  his  yellow  wares  across  the  haze? 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  17 

'  Your  verse  awaits  vou  there ; 
For  Love  is  Love  though  Latin  swords  be  rust ; 
The  keen  Greek  driven  from  gossiping  mall  and 

square; 
And  Care  is  still  but  Care 
Though  Homer  and  his  seven  towns  are  dust. 

Thus  Beauty  lasts,  and  lo  ! 

Now  Proserpine  is  barred  from  Enna's  hills, 

The  flower  she  plucked  yet  makes  an  April  show, 

Sets  some  town  sill  a-glow, 

And  yours  the  Vision  of  the  Daffodils. 

The  Old-World  folk  knew  not 

More  surge-like  soimds  than  urban  winters  bring 

Up  from  the  wharves  at  dusk  to  every  spot ; 

And  no  Sicilian  plot 

More  fire  than  heaps  our  tulips  in  the  spring. 

Strait  is  the  road  of  Song, 

And  they  that  be  the  last  are  oft  the  first ; 

Fret  not  for  fame;  the  years  are  kind  though  long; 

You,  in  the  teasing  throng, 

May  take  all  time  with  one  shrewd  lyric  burst. 

Be  reverend  and  know 

111  shall  not  last,  or  waste  the  ploughed  land; 

Or  creeds  sting  timid  souls;  and  naught  at  all. 

Whatever  else  befall, 

Can  keep  us  from  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 

Let  trick  of  words  be  past; 

Strict  with  the  thought,  unfearful  of  the  form, 

So  shall  you  find  the  way  and   ^old  it  fast. 

The  world  hear,  at  the  last, 

The  horns  of  morning  sound  above  the  storm. 


18        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

'  Let  trick  of  words  be  past,'  "  repeated  Jason, 
— "  that  is  what  j^ou  sometimes  feel  that  Mr.  de  la 
Mare  fails  to  do.  It  is  part  of  the  heritage  which 
a  group  of  contemporary  English  poets  have  re- 
ceived from  old  Dr.  Donne." 

"  For  all  that  you  say,  Jason,  Mr.  de  la  Mare 
is  a  poet  of  magic,"  I  insisted.  "  I  fancy  there 
will  never  come  a  time  when  I  shall  weary  of  quot- 
ing '  The  Listeners  ' : 

"  '  Is  there  anybody  there  ?  '  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head: 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time ; 

'  Is  there  anybody  there  ?  '  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf  fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes. 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men: 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark 
stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall. 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry. 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  19 

While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky ; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head:  — 
'  Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered ; 

That  I  kept  my  word,'  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners. 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still 
house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone. 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward. 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 

That  is  the  very  stuff  of  magic,  not  in  any  single 
line  or  word,  but  by  the  total  conjuration  of  some- 
thing elemental,  like  an  odor,  a  light,  a  feeling. 
Pierce  the  magic,  if  one  dares,  and  I  am  willing  to 
admit  a  bit  of  terror  comes  into  view,  haunting 
and  overawing." 

"  No  wonder  the  listeners  did  not  answer  this 
Traveller,"  Jason  satirically  remarked ;  "  they 
were  afraid  to  let  him  in  to  the  '  shadowiness  of  the 
still  house,'  his  house  of  childhood  and  youth ;  such 
an  accommodation  by  Time  would  prove  too  eeyrie 
an  experience  for  any  man.  I  still  maintain  that 
the  metaphysics  of  John  Donne  produces  some- 
thing else  besides  magic  in  our  modern  poet.  The 
fact  is,  that  Mr.  de  la  Mare  is  a  poet  untroubled 
by  time  or  circumstances.     He  is  altogether  too 


20        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

acquiescent  with  life,  with  nature,  with  his  own 
dreams." 

"  That  isn't  quite  so,"  retorted  Cassandra. 
"  His  acquiescence  is  only  a  trait,  which  permits 
him  to  listen  for  the  secrets  stealing  shyly  from 
the  heart  of  the  world.  He  knows  what  unhappy 
and  futile  powers  sometimes  go  into  their  weav- 
ing." 

"  It  is  his  almost  acute  perception  of  the  im- 
permanency  of  the  world  and  its  desires,  that 
forces  him  to  lure  what  loveliness  he  can  out  of 
the  present  impulse.  Has  he  not  inscribed  it  all 
in  those  beautiful  lines  '  An  Epitaph  ^? 

"  Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 
Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she ; 
I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 
That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 
But  beauty  vanishes ;  beauty  passes ; 
However  rare  —  rare  it  be ; 
And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 
This  lady  of  the  West  Country?  " 

Psyche,  I  noticed,  had  been  silent,  listening  to 
our  discussion.  "  Are  you  debating  in  3'our  mind 
which  of  us  is  right  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Why,  not  exactly,"  she  answered.  "  I  was 
merely  asking  myself  how  it  was  that  both  of  you 
seem  to  miss  what  is  most  infectious  in  Mr.  de  la 
Mare's  poetry." 

"  What  is  most  infectious  in  Mr.  de  la  Mare's 
poetry.''  "  asked  Jason. 

"  His  humor,  of  course,"  she  replied.     "  Here 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  21 

is  proof  in  one  of  the  '  Three  Queer  Tales,'  called 
'  Off  the  Ground  '  from  '  Peacock  Pie  ' : 

"  Three  jolly  Farmers 
Once  bet  a  pound 
Each  dance  the  others  would 
OfF  the  ground. 
Out  of  their  coats 
They  slipped  right  soon. 
And  neat  and  nicesome. 
Put  each  his  shoon. 
One  —  Two  —  Three ! 
And  away  they  go, 
Not  too  fast, 
And  not  too  slow ; 
Out  from  the  elm-tree's 
Noonday  shadow, 
Into  the  sun 
And  across  the  meadow. 
Past  the  schoolroom, 
With  knees  well  bent 
Fingers  a-flicking, 
They  dancing  went. 
Up  sides  and  over, 
And  round  and  round, 
They  crossed  click-clacking, 
The  Parish  bound, 
By  Tupman's  meadow 
They  did  their  mile, 
Tee-to-tum 

On  a  three-barred  stile. 
Then  straight  through  Whipham, 
Downhill  to  Week, 
Footing  it  lightsome, 
But  not  too  quick. 


22        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Up  fields  to  Watchet, 

And  on  through  Wye, 

Till  seven  fine  churches 

They'd  seen  skip  by  — 

Seven  fine  churches, 

And  five  old  mills, 

Farms  in  the  valley. 

And  sheep  on  the  hills; 

Old  Man's  Acre 

And  Dead  Man's  Pool 

All  left  behind, 

As  they  danced  through  Wool. 

And  Wool  gone  by. 

Like  tops  that  seem 

To  spin  in  sleep 

They  danced  in  dream: 

Withy  —  Wellover  — 

Wassop  —  Wo  — 

Like  an  old  clock 

Their  heels  did  go. 

A  league  and  a  league 

And  a  league  they  went. 

And  not  one  weary, 

And  not  one  spent. 

And  lo,  and  behold  ! 

Past  Willow-cum-Leigh 

Stretched  with  its  waters 

The  great  green  sea. 

Says  Farmer  Bates, 

'  I  pufFs  and  I  blows, 

What's  under  the  water. 

Why,  no  man  knows  !  ' 

Says  Farmer  Giles, 

'  My  wind  comes  weak, 

And  a  good  man  drownded 


MAGIC  CASEMENTS  23 

Is  far  to  seek.' 

But  Farmer  Turvey, 

On  twirling  toes 

Ups  with  his  gaiters. 

And  in  he  goes : 

Down  where  the  mermaids 

Pluck  and  play 

On  their  twanging  harps 

In  a  sea-green  day ; 

Down  where  the  mermaids. 

Finned  and  fair. 

Sleek  with  their  combs 

Their  yellow  hair.  .  .  . 

Bates  and  Giles  — 

On  the  shingle  sat. 

Gazing  at  Turvey's 

Floating  hat. 

But  never  a  ripple 

Nor  bubble  told 

Where  he  was  supping 

Off  plates  of  gold. 

Never  an  echo 

Rilled  through  the  sea 

Of  the  feasting  and  dancing 

And  minstrelsy. 

They  called  —  called  —  called: 

Came  no  reply: 

Nought  but  the  ripples' 

Sandy  sigh. 

Then  glum  and  silent 

They  sat  instead, 

Vacantly  brooding 

On  home  and  bed. 

Till  both  together 

Stood  up  and  said: 


U        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

'  Us  knows  not,  dreams  not. 

Where  you  be, 

Turvey,  unless 

In  the  deep  blue  sea ; 

But  axcusing  silver  — 

And  it  comes  most  willing  — 

Here's  us  two  paying 

Our  forty  shilling; 

For  it's  sartin  sure,  Turvey, 

Safe  and  sound. 

You  danced  us  square,  Turvey, 

OfF  the  ground!'" 

We  could  not  help  but  admit  that  Psyche  had 
called  our  attention  to  a  distinctive  gift  in  Mr. 
de  la  Mare's  poetry,  though  Jason  merely  to  be 
perverse,  I  think,  would  not  agree  that  it  was  more 
infectious  than  his  other  qualities. 

"  I'll  like  to  see  you  '  axcusing  silver,'  "  Psyche 
mocked  Jason,  as  we  prepared  to  return  to  The 
Farm. 

"  Well,  it  would  be  an  adventure  to  have  had 
Turvey's  experience,"  laughed  Jason,  "  with  the 
shillings  and  the  mermaids  in  the  bargain." 


II 

THE  RESEARCH  ARTIFICE 

"  Our  verse  this  week,"  began  Psyche,  as  she 
comfortably  seated  herself  on  a  fallen  log  with  that 
swaying  grace  which  is  one  of  her  attractive  pos- 
sessions, "  is  full  of  fine  essences." 

"All  good  poetry  is  chiefly  essence,  isn't  it?" 
queried  Jason. 

"  Yes ;  but  you  can't  always  qualify  it,"  I  sug- 
gested. "  And  that  is  why  criticism  so  often  falls 
back  upon  generalities  in  explaining  its  mood  and 
substance." 

"  But  the  four  volumes  we  selected  for  discus- 
sion this  week,"  Psyche  went  on,  "  have  each  a 
special  kind  of  poetic  essence,  though  I  don't 
think  they  all  have  the  same  agreeable  taste." 

"  For  instance,"  I  prompted. 

"  Before  Psyche  gives  her  theory  —  or  is  it  a 
theory.?  "  Jason  remarked  "  —  of  our  four  poets, 
I  would  like  to  ask,  if  so  real  a  thing  as  poetry 
cannot  be  better  characterized  as  a  substance.''  I 
don't  know,  I  merely  ask," 

"  Let's  have  Psyche's  view  first,"  I  proposed. 

"  They  are  simply  impressions,"  Psj^che  in- 
formed me  with  a  glance.  "  Well,"  she  began,  set- 
tling to  the  theme,  "  Mrs.  Barker's  '  Songs  of  a 

25 


26        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Vagrom  Angel '  is  the  essence  of  a  faith,  which  she 
has  not  wholly  and  fully  proved.  These  songs, 
she  declares  in  her  Preface,  were  dictated  to  her 
in  twenty-two  hours  of  a  March  day.  They  came 
from,  well  —  really  from  no  particular  state  of 
existence,  though  angels,  of  course,  have  a  particu- 
lar abode  in  our  mortal  fancy.  The  songs  sing  of 
the  soul  in  relation  to  this  life  we  live  on  earth ; 
and  this  suggests  a  quality  of  human  spirit  one 
likes  to  believe  really  exists  in  us.  But  I  know 
of  only  one  other  modern  poet,  though  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  count  in  Evelyn  Underhill, —  the  In- 
dian mystic  Tagore,  who  actually  lives  and  believes 
in  such  an  abstract  reality.  For  us,  then,  these 
fifty  songs  are  a  compound  of  essences.  Now,  in 
another  sense,  Mr.  Buck's  '  Ephemera  '  is  also  a 
volume  of  essences  —  the  pagan  efflorescence  of  a 
modern  American  whose  soul  is  really,  and  only, 
alive  in  antiquity.  He  calls  his  pieces  Greek  prose 
poems ;  they  are  an  exquisite  pattern  of  gems. 
The  glow,  the  warmth,  the  color,  have  each  a 
piquancy  that  bite  into  the  emotions.  I  should 
call,  too,  Mr.  Evans  pagan ;  through  his  volume 
'  Two  Deaths  in  the  Bronx,'  he  extracts  his  es- 
sence from  modern  life.  His  poetic  solution  w^ill 
not  always  filter  clear,  however,  for  he  strains  the 
turgid  emotionalism  of  a  futuristic  temperament. 
Futurism,  cubism,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call 
this  ultra-modern  aesthetic  note,  is  nothing  more 
to  my  mind  than  paganism  reaching  passionately 
back  toward  primitive  chaos.  INIr.  Evans  is  primi- 
tive, or  should  I  say  primal?  of  the  jungle  and  the 


THE  RESEARCH  ARTIFICE  2T 

cave  in  the  manner  of  communication,  though  his 
substance  is  modern  to  the  extreme.  Strangely 
enough,  too,"  Psyche  affirmed  with  a  gesture,  "  Mr. 
Wright's  '  One  Way  of  Love,'  is  a  volume  of  es- 
sences, fevers  distilled,  if  you  like,  the  strange 
mixture  of  the  sensuous  and  ecclesiastical.  His 
sensuous  love-songs  are  ritualistic ;  his  poems  in 
which  the  influence  of  ecclesiasticism  is  evident,  are 
physically  emotional.  In  these  he  has  fallen  in 
love  with  the  angel  and  is  deaf  to  the  message 
which  the  angel  brings  from  heaven.  Now,  all 
these  poets,"  Psyche  summed  up,  "  are  not  in 
touch  with  life  as  an  actuality ;  as  a  simple,  every 
day  affair  which  men  live,  and  wear  as  they  do 
their  clothes  or  their  sorrows,  but  merely  reflect 
it  through  the  ground  glass  of  dreams.  We  see 
on  this  side  of  the  glass  shadowy  forms,  and  emo- 
tionally, shadows  are  always  essences." 

"  We  might  expect  Psyche,"  assented  Jason, 
turning  to  me,  "  to  seek  the  intangible  in  the  form, 
but  I  do  believe  that  she  is  right.  You  recall  the 
twenty-first  song  in  which  Mrs.  Barker's  angel 
whispered  its  love  of  an  invisible  soul,  out  of  a 
London  sky  on  a  certain  day  in  the  particular 
month  of  March." 

"  If  we  all  could  have  an  angel,  like  Mrs. 
Barker,"  I  observed ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  am  one  of 
those  skeptics  she  mentions  in  her  preface,  and 
rather  credit  her  own  splendid  talents  for  the  ac- 
complishment of  those  twenty-two  London  hours." 

"  I  think,"  said  Cassandra,  "  that  Jason  did  not 
refer  to  the  appropriate  poem  from  Mrs.  Barker's 


28        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

book  for  the  proper  understanding  of  the  mystery 
of  this  angelic  dictation.  Read  the  opening  song 
and  it  may  throw  some  light  on  her  peculiar  priv- 
ilege of  developing  this  psychic  intuition." 

"  I  didn't,"  retorted  Jason,  "  because  it  is  arro- 
gant to  have  your  inspiration  talk  as  reported  in 
that  poem,  whether  it  is  an  angel  or  just  yourself 
wishing  to  make  a  poem." 

"  Your  irreverence  is  out  of  place,"  I  rebuked 
Jason.  "  You  can  possibly  countenance  no  angels 
except  of  your  own  acquaintance.  I  wonder  if 
you  could  find  one  as  accommodating  as  Mrs. 
Barker's.?" 

"  Oh,  I  prefer  shepherds,"  Jason  replied  sar- 
castically. "  When  it  comes  to  vagueness  they 
beat  angels  hollow.  Between  the  two  in  modern 
literature  there  really  seems  to  be  no  choice  for 
—  well,  let  us  say,  reality.  That  is  why  I  would 
match  Mr.  Buck's  shepherds  against  Mrs.  Bar- 
ker's angels  any  day.  You  have  heard  an  angel 
speak,  in  divine  —  no,  rather  psychic  —  accents  ; 
now  listen  to  a  shepherd  in  any  accent  you  please, 
but  don't  charge  the  timbre  to  a  modera  Phila- 
delphian : 

"  When  it  is  night,  before  the  moon  has  risen  and 
the  skies  are  spattered  thick  with  stars ;  when,  in  the 
distance,  all  things  blend  into  one  and  the  sleeping 
earth  touches  the  arched  sky,  I  stand  before  my  tiny 
hut  and  pray. 

"  Below  me  on  the  hillside,  their  coats  glowing 
softly  in  the  starlight,  lie  my  sheep.     And  from  the 


THE  RESEARCH  ARTIFICE  29 

trees,  the  brooks,  the  grasses,  the  incessant  chorus  of 
midsummer  nights  trills  through  the  air. 

"  Yet  I  know  not  to  what  or  to  whom  I  pray.  Not 
to  the  sun  or  moon  for  they  are  nowhere  to  be  seen; 
not  to  the  gods  for  there  is  no  temple  nor  even  a  statue 
here ;  not  to  the  stars  for  there  are  too  many  and  some, 
neglected,  would  be  jealous. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  to  the  sighing  wind  I  pray;  perhaps 
to  the  shadows  and  the  rolling  hills;  perhaps  to  the 
night  itself,  itself  which  seems  so  peaceful,  all-embrac- 
ing, mysteriously  divine." 

Cassandra  offered  a  suggestion  about  the  mod- 
ern interpreter  of  Greek  emotion  that  was  worth 
attention  in  spite  of  its  obviousness.  "  Your  mod- 
ern singer  of  Greek  themes,"  she  said,  "  is  likel}'  to 
be  a  bit  sensual.  Scarcely  any  poet  in  English 
had,  like  Keats,  the  impersonality  to  escape  it.  It 
will  always  remain  a  mystery  how  the  London 
cockney,  as  one  of  his  early  critics  called  him,  be- 
came so  authentic  a  Greek.  I  imagine  Matthew 
Arnold,  after  '  The  Strayed  Reveller,'  gave  up  the 
attempt  in  despair ;  '  Empedocles  on  Etna,'  was  of 
Landorian  mode  rather  than  of  true  Greek  sub- 
stance. Swinburne  made  of  his  intellectual  Greek 
sympathies  a  sort  of  Renaissance  confusion.  But 
your  modern  poet  without  these  sympathies,  is 
sensual.  Of  course,  he  doesn't  mean  to  be.  He 
aims  to  be  merely  faithful  to  the  Greek  view  of  life, 
and  that  is  to  give  a  frank  expression  of  experi- 
ence. If  you  wish  to  be  convinced  of  the  differ- 
ence, read  the  idyls  of  Theocritus,  especially  I 
would  recommend  the  twenty-seventh  idyl." 


30        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  You  should  discriminate,"  broke  in  Jason, 
"  between  the  bucolic  poets  and  the  broad  field 
of  Greek  poets.  Your  argument  might  not  prove 
so  persuasive." 

"  I  see  that  you,  for  all  your  contact  with  life," 
Cassandra  addressed  Jason  in  reply,  "  cling  to  the 
fallacy  that  the  city  is  more  moral  than  the  coun- 
try. I  don't  think  the  rural  community  of  the 
first  century  differed  much  in  this  respect  from 
the  twentieth.  So  I  maintain  that  this  bucolic 
poet  Theocritus,  telling  frankly  the  pastoral  life 
of  his  day,  presented  it  with  a  wholesomeness  our 
poets  miss  when  they  copy  the  mood.  In 
such  poems  as  *  Penumbra  '  and  '  Astarte,'  Mr. 
Buck  comes  off  very  well,  I'll  admit,  with  his 
task." 

"  Oh,  that's  a  rather  pale  approval  of  Mr. 
Buck's  talents,"  I  charged  Cassandra.  "  Surely 
no  American  poet  has  struck  this  particular  note 
better  than  Mr.  Buck  has  in  *  The  Merchant.' 
Give  it  the  honor  of  your  attention : 

"  These  treasures  I  have  gathered  for  many  years. 
And  if  thou  wilt  .  .  .  Here  are  mirrors  of  bronze; 
and  here  a  silver  bracelet,  heavy  with  sards  from 
Lydia.  It  is  enchanted,  caressing  the  arm  of  her  that 
wears  it,  if  only  she  be  fair  .  .  .   Thou  seest ! 

"  Here  are  perfumes  and  rare  essences  in  alabaster 
vials  from  Corinth  and  the  isle  of  Crete.  And  here, 
perfumes  no  less  immortal  in  brown  clay  vases  from 
Etruria. 

"  This  rose  powder  from  the  amorous  blooms  of 
Mitylene  will  make  thy  nails  lustrous  as  nacre.     And 


THE  RESEARCH  ARTIFICE  31 

here  is  purest  kohl  to  shadow  the  flaming  languor  of 
thine  eyes. 

"  These  glowing  silks  have  come  from  many  lands. 
This  is  thy  color  .  .  .  O  Isis !  How  beautiful!  .  .  . 
The  price?  Nay,  take  it,  and  the  bracelet  also. 
They  would  desolate,  away  from  thee.  And  as  my 
only  payment,  I  pray  thee  wear  them  once,  passing  my 
door." 

"  I'll  not  deny  you  the  comfort  of  your  opinion 
of  Mr.  Buck's  poem,"  Jason  exclaimed  with  an 
excessive  gesture  of  politeness ;  it  was  a  way  he 
sometimes  had  of  dismissing  a  subject  about  which 
he  was  not  in  entire  agreement  with  the  speaker, 
and  desired  to  introduce  a  fresh  one.  We  really 
can't  leave  Mr.  Evans,"  he  added,  "  without  an 
auditory  acquaintance  with  his  art,  and  I  propose 
to  give  you  that  pleasure  by  reading  the  first  poem 
in  '  For  the  Haunting  of  Mauna,'  which  is  about 
the  '  Body  of  the  Queen.'  You  will  observe  that 
it  is  made  out  of  such  —  well,  Shakespeare  would 
have  said  dreams  —  stuff  as  headaches  are  made 
out  of,  and  that's  no  reflection  upon  the  appetite 
of  desire,  I  can  most  humbly  assure  you.  The 
thing  haunts  me  like  a  visitation  I  had,  or  believed 
I  had,  when  a  child,  on  Christmas  eve  of  an  ass's 
head  crowned  with  flowers  in  a  nimbus  of  light, 
projected  over  my  bed  in. the  dark.  Here  is  the 
poem: 

"  Suave  body  of  the  Queen,  she  gave  me  you. 
Misting  in  still,  warm  rains  of  tenderness  — 
But  kept  herself,  and  we  are  each  betrayed. 
You  are  her  mistress,  and  she  makes  of  me 


32        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Another  mistress !     Playthings  are  we  both, 

When  we  thought  she  meant  us  for  full  sovereignty ; 

It  was  not  regal,  and  her  throne  is  stained. 

She  bade  you  seek  me,  and  your  singing  feet 

Ran  quickly,  surely ;  you  held  out  your  hands. 

You  had  no  fear  because  you  felt  my  heart 

Leap  as  you  laid  your  white  breast  under  it. 

We  had  no  prides  to  conquer  as  we  kissed. 

For  we  knew  kinship  in  our  overthrow. 

Yet  now  she  stands  apart  and  questions  us. 

How  can  she  question  —  leave  me  out  of  it  — 

But  you,  her  body,  her  sweet  source  of  joy, — 

How  can  she  then  divide  herself  from  you. 

And  calmly  reckon  what  the  gain  may  be? 

The  hour  will  come  when  she  will  tire  of  us. 

And  all  your  softness  will  be  broken  up, 

Your  rioting  lips  chilled  with  an  ashen  wind. 

There  is  a  hint  of  vileness  in  the  air. 

And  on  the  strings  a  dance  of  ironies. 

With  love's  scarecrow  jigging  wearily.  .  .  . 

So  still  I  have  you  —  so  I  am  not  afraid !  " 

"  Well,"  commented  Cassandra,  when  Jason 
finished,  "  the  exotic  mood  seems  to  have  taken  hold 
of  the  poet's  conception.  But  I  suppose,  whether 
of  the  spirit  or  the  flesh,  the  exotic  may  be,  ac- 
cording to  Psyche's  opinion,  merely  an  essence." 


Ill 

THE  SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE 

We  lingered  in  the  house  waiting  for  the  clouds 
to  break,  but  they  hung  on  with  a  persistency  that 
threatened  our  ardor.  I  had  brought  a  friend,  a 
poet  from  the  West,  up  to  the  Farm,  and  I  partic- 
ularly wanted  him  to  see  our  woods  ;  nor  did  I  want 
my  friends  to  miss  the  reading  he  promised,  under 
the  leafy  boughs,  of  the  delicate,  suggestive  hokku 
poems  he  had  written.  Psyche  was  for  dashing 
out,  with  no  mind  for  the  weather,  and  her  en- 
thusiasm prevailed  upon  us  to  start.  She  knew 
a  canopied  grove,  she  said,  near  the  edge  of  a  deep 
brook,  and  even  if  the  rain  came  down  heavily,  the 
boughs  would  protect  us  there.  It  was  not  far 
from  the  place  we  were  accustomed  to  meet.  So 
with  wraps  and  umbrellas,  we  went  out  to  defy  a 
showery  June  sky.  In  David's  leather  case,  we 
put  our  books ;  besides  his  manuscript  and  our 
weekly  group  of  poets,  I  took  along  Robinson's 
poems  which  I  was  to  read  for  David  O'Neil's 
pleasure  late  in  the  afternoon. 

The  rain  held  off  during  our  walk  to  the  grove. 

Psyche's  brook  ran  through  a  deep  ravine;  it  was 

a  still  and  sombre  place,  far  away  from  the  high 

road    that    ran    to    Derry.     The    woodland    floor 

33 


34        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

there,  was  carpeted  thick  with  pine  needles  and 
moss.  We  found  a  comfortable  and  sheltered 
spot,  under  a  huge  pine  standing  so  close  to  its 
fellows  that  its  lower  branches  made  a  perfect 
ceiling.  Here  we  spread  raincoats  and  sweaters, 
and  seated  ourselves,  undisturbed  by  the  rain 
which  began  to  patter  lightly  above  our 
heads. 

"  Psyche  on  the  last  occasion  of  our  visit  to  the 
woods,"  I  began,  "  gave  us  a  little  explanation  of 
essence  in  poetry.  I  suppose  everything  has  an 
essence,  everything  that  is  of  the  spirit  and  beauti- 
ful. But  the  particular  significance  of  her  re- 
marks, was  in  showing  how  four  poets  such  as  Elsa 
Barker,  Mitchell  Buck,  Cuthbert  Wright,  and 
Donald  Evans,  could  extract  it  from  the  same 
source  of  temperament,  and  yet  present  such  a 
totally  different  sense  of  experience.  Jason,  here, 
preferred  to  regard  this  mystery  as  a  substance ; 
something  too  vital  to  be  an  abstraction.  And 
Cassandra,  questioning  the  term,  came  up  at  the 
end  with  a  rather  flat  assumption  that  the  moods 
of  all  these  poets  were  exotic." 

"  Oh,  I  protest  that  interpretation,"  Cassandra 
put  in.  "  Essences  are  rare,  and  I  only  meant, 
that  where  life  is  so  solid  as  it  is  with  us  to-day, 
any  attempt  to  get  so  far  away  from  it  as  those 
poets  do,  is  to  express  the  strange  and  unfamiliar. 
Whether  it  is  the  embodiment  of  angels  through 
the  psychic  experience  of  a  woman's  soul,  as  in 
Mrs.  Barker's  songs;  or  fauns  and  shepherds  of 
ancient    Greece    taking    shape    in    Mr.    Buck's 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE     35 

imagination,  as  in  his  pastels,  the  impulse,  I  in- 
sist, is  exotic." 

"  Wasn't  life  just  as  solid  for  the  Sicilian  shep- 
herd two  thousand  years  ago  —  more  solid,  I 
imagine,  than  we  can  guess,  when  there  came  to 
his  passionate  mind  echoes  of  the  Palestine  trag- 
edy, tumbling  his  gods  in  confusion  from  their  al- 
tars, and  setting  up  this  new  god,  a  man  like  him- 
self, only  pale  where  he  was  rosy  of  countenance, 
and  with  no  humor  in  his  nature  —  wasn't  life 
just  as  solid  then,"  repeated  Jason,  "  as  it  is  with 
us  now?  And  may  it  not  be  just  as  solid  for  the 
angels,  even  though  they  live  on  light,  music  and 
prayers,  as  some  of  us  do  who  have  bad  digestions 
—  in  the  abodes  where  they  are?  Well,  then, 
why  shouldn't  these  poets  treat  distance  and  time 
as  of  no  consequence  in  searching  for  their  own 
particular  kind  of  beauty  and  meaning  of  truth?  " 

"  There  is  something  in  what  Jason  says,"  I  ap- 
proved, 

"  Something!  in  what  I  say !  "  Jason  threw  at 
me,  in  a  tone  of  contempt.  "  Well,  you  don't 
seem  to  have  found  it,  if  that  is  all  you  can  say," 
he  added. 

I  laughed  heartily  at  the  pain  Jason  pretended 
to  suffer  from  my  obtuse  remark.  "  Here,  Ja- 
son," I  said,  "  is  my  tender  of  conciliation,  this 
sonnet  of  Masefield,"  and  I  read: 

"  Go,  spend  your  penny.  Beauty,  when  you  will. 
In  the  grave's  darkness  let  the  stamp  be  lost. 
The  water  still  will  bubble  from  the  hill, 
And  April  quick  the  meadows  with  her  ghost; 


36        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Over  the  grass  the  daffodils  will  shiver, 

The  primroses  with  their  pale  beauty  abound, 

The  blackbird  be  a  lover  and  make  quiver 

With  his  glad  singing  the  great  soul  of  the  ground; 

So  that  if  the  body  rot,  it  will  not  matter ; 

Up  in  the  earth  the  great  game  will  go  on. 

The  coming  of  Spring  and  the  running  of  the  water. 

And  the  young  things  glad  of  the  womb's  darkness 

gone; 
And  the  j  oy  we  felt  will  be  a  part  of  the  glory 
In  the  lover's  kiss  that  makes  the  old  couple's  story. 

You  will  discover,  expressed  in  this  sonnet,  how 
I  feel  about  what  you  said,  Jason.  '  Go,  spend 
your  penny,  Beauty,  when  you  will,'  it  is  the  '  lov- 
er's kiss  '  of  humanity,  and  chronicles  the  '  old 
couple's  story,'  age  after  age.  It  is  the  sacerdotal 
wonder  of  life  which  poets  feel,  and  it  need  not  be 
just  the  particular  period  of  life  into  which  the 
poet  is  born.  More  certainly  than  other  men 
poets  are  conscious  of  pre-existence,  in  other 
worlds,  and  in  this  too,  and  into  their  poems  they 
bring  often  the  temper  of  another  age.  Your 
'  belated  Elizabethan,'  is  an  example." 

"  Your  theory  is  all  nonsense,"  Jason  scoffed. 
"  But  I  do  appreciate  your  discernment  of  Mase- 
field's  genius.  I  say  '  genius  '  advisedly,  for  what- 
ever was  claimed  for  his  earlier  narratives,  sea- 
ballads  and  poems,  they  never  gave  him  the  right 
to  wear  that  term  as  these  sonnets  do.   .   .   ." 

"  Yet  some  profess  to  see  a  decline  of  his  powers 
in  the  sonnets,"  I  observed,  "  from  the  vigorous 
and  picturesque  realism  of  the  narratives.     The 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE     37 

reverence  for  life,  the  quest  for  beauty,  in  them  is 
the  finest  expression  of  this  poet's  life." 

"  My  testimony  to  that  assertion,"  said  Psyche, 
"  is  this  one  with  its  mystic  illumination,"  and  she 
read: 

"  Flesh,  I  have  knocked  at  many  a  dusty  door. 
Gone  down  full  many  a  windy  midnight  lane, 
Probed  in  old  walls  and  felt  along  the  floor, 
Pressed  in  blind  hope  the  lighted  window-pane. 
But  useless  all,  though  sometimes,  when  the  moon 
Was  full  in  heaven  and  the  sea  was  full. 
Along  my  body's  alleys  came  a  tune 
Played  in  the  tavern  by  the  Beautiful. 
Then  for  an  instant  I  have  felt  at  point 
To  find  and  seize  her,  whosoe'er  she  be. 
Whether  some  saint  whose  glory  does  anoint 
Those  whom  she  loves,  or  but  a  part  of  me. 
Or  something  that  the  things  not  understood 
Make  for  their  uses  out  of  flesh  and  blood." 

"  I  come  back,"  declared  Jason,  "  to  Psyche's 
theory  of  essences.  The  '  mystic  illumination,'  of 
the  sonnet  —  it  is  her  phrase  —  is  a  kind  of  es- 
sence, too.  The  mood  is  a  little  too  abstract, 
however,  to  give  it  a  name.  Nevertheless,  whether 
we  agree  or  disagree  about  this  intangible  quality 
in  poetry,  there's  precious  little  of  it  come  to  the 
surface  in  the  poetry  of  Mr.  O'Conor,  or  ]Mrs. 
Aldis." 

"  Don't  you  include,"  asked  Psyche,  "  Mr. 
O'Conor's  play,  '  The  Fairy  Bride,'  in  this  ele- 
mental class  of  verse.''  There  are  ideals  and  fairies 
and  disembodiments  in  it ;  and,  having  these,  like 


\  2L.  OSA- 


38        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

all  things  of  the  Celtic  imagination,  aren't  they 
the  essences  of  dreams  ?  " 

"  One  would  almost  accept  your  point  of  view," 
replied  Jason,  "  when  one  reads  this  dialogue  from 
'  The  Fairy  Bride,'  in  which  Dermot  the  prince 
says  to  Ethne,  the  fairy  princess,  as  he  leaves  her, 
being  healed,  to  go  back  to  Dun  Faithoi  and  the 
inheritance  of  his  father's  kingdom :  '  Time  has 
been  short  indeed ;  but  I  have  gained  strength  of 
body  and  soul.  Both  thou  gavest  me :  the  one  with 
thy  potions  and  thy  healing  hands,  the  other  thy 
love;  and  I  would  go,  as  every  man  must  wish  to 
go,  and  show  the  strength  of  this,  thy  love,  to  all 
the  world.'     And  Ethne  replies : 

"  *  That  which  it  may  not  understand,  why  show 
The  world,  when  here  we  know  the  worth  of  love.'' ' 

And  when  you  consider  the  wicked  queen,  Buan,  in 
league  with  evil  powers  and  dark  spells,  which  she 
uses  against  the  loyalty  of  the  druids  and  nobles, 
in  behalf  of  her  son  Connla  whom  she  is  ambitious 
to  have  succeed  Fergus  on  the  throne,  I  almost 
grant  that  Mr.  O'Conor,  too,  belongs  to  Psyche's 
poetry  of  abstraction.  Only  I  think  his  sym- 
bolism has  a  body  to  it,  though  it  may  be  of  vague 
substance." 

"  The  very  unreality  of  the  play,"  Psyche 
claimed,  "  is  the  most  real  part  of  it.  And  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  the  fairy  bride  is  the  most  living 
character  in  the  play.  Fergus  and  his  queen, 
Buan,  are  vivid  —  well,  if  one  may  say  so,  like 
shadows  on  a  bright  surface.     Of  course,  in  com- 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE      39 

mon  with  all  fairy  tales,  the  play  has  its  moral, 
but  it  is  not  a  pendant  as  it  should  be,  owing,  I 
suppose,  to  the  American  influence  upon  the  poet's 
Celtic  spirit.  Take  the  scene,  at  the  end,  when 
Buan  having  failed,  and  in  humiliation  and  anger 
is  led  away  by  the  nobles,  and  the  happy  plighting 
of  Dermot  and  Ethne  follows,  doesn't  the  poet 
voice  a  wisdom  which  is  the  most  elusive  in  the 
world? 

"  Ethne.     Now,   justice   done,    I   will   complete  my 

story. 
On    the    happy    meadows    was    Prince    Dermot 

healed, 
And  there  I  won  his  love ;  yet  could  not  win 
His  promise  to  remain  with  me  forever. 
The  mortal  call  of  duty  sounded  still 
Upon  his  ears;  he  had  not  learned  that  Love 
Is  all,  and  Love  and  Duty  one  in  Fairyland. 

"  King.     Well  has  thou  proved  thy  father's  trust,  O 
Dermot ! 

"  Ethne.     Then,  since  he  would  return,  my  bugle  horn 
I  gave  him;  bade  him  in  his  direst  need 
Blow     thrice     thereon.     Straightway     would     I 

appear. 
My  father  granted  then  his  suit :  consent 
To  come  again  to  Fairyland  and  wed 
With  me;  yet  charged  him  he  should  touch  no 

wine 
Before  the  sun  was  set  upon  the  day 
That  saw  him  in  thine  hall  once  more ;  to  tell 
No  mortal  of  his  healing,  under  pain 
Of  coming  nevermore  to  Fairyland. 


40        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Dermot.     But    I    have    tasted    wine,    and    so    am 
doomed. 

"  Ethne.     Peace  to  thy  fears,  Beloved;  for  the  King, 
My  father,  in  his  wisdom  judged  not  thus. 
The  spirit  of  thy  promise  thou  hast  kept, 
Broken  the  letter  only.     I  am  come, 
A  mortal  woman,  here  to  wed  with  thee, 
Bearing  my  father's  blessing.     Fairy  nature 
Is   mine   no   more.     Because   thou   hast   touch'd 

wine, 
Never  mayest  thou  return  to  Fairyland; 
But  I  will  stay  henceforward  in  the  world. 
And  by  our  love  shall  we  be  made  immortal ! 

"Dermot  [Embracing  Ethne].  By  such  love  am  I 
made  immortal  now!  We  shall  reign  together 
through  the  years;  and,  at  the  end,  pass  in  the 
fullness  of  our  time  to  the  meadows  we  once  have 
known;  there  live  and  love  forever. 

"  King.  O  Ethne,  a  hundred  thousand  thanks  were 
not  enough  for  all  that  thou  hast  done!  I  am 
forever  grateful  to  the  Fairies,  the  unseen  spirits 
who  live  to  favor  mortal  men.  I  welcome  thee 
and  Dermot,  giving  him  my  throne,  and  to  ye 
both  my  blessing.  O  nobles,  choose  now  whom 
ye  will  have  to  reign! 

"  Nobles:  [with  one  voice].  We  choose  Prince  Der- 
mot !  " 

"  The  moral  influence  cannot  any  more  be  said 
to  be  a  stigmata  on  American  art,"  Cassandra 
broke  in  on  the  heels  of  Psyche's  reading.     "  Mrs. 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE     41 

Aldis's  '  Flashlights,'  is  a  very  fine  book  in  every 
way,  and  proves  that  life  and  art  may  become  ac- 
quainted on  equal  terms  without  an  ethical  or 
moral  introduction.  This  poet  presents  life  nak- 
edly, takes  no  sides  with  this  or  that  condition, 
holds  no  brief  for  this  or  that  purpose ;  expressing 
only  the  pity  and  glor^-  of  it.  She  gives  one,  too, 
a  sense  of  securit}^  in  the  free  forms  that  are  used, 
a  conviction  one  does  not  feel  regarding  many  of 
the  '  new  '  poets." 

"  Well,  I  see  a  very  strong  moral  influence  in 
Mrs.  Aldis's  poem  '  The  Barber  Shop,'  "  Jason 
wished  to  correct  Cassandra.  "  I  daresay  Mrs. 
Aldis  had  no  notion  of  exerting  any  such  influence. 
What  she  desired  to  show,  I  suppose,  was  that  such 
a  girl  as  that  manicurist  was  simply  human,  and 
clean  about  it,  a  fact  the  stupid  old  world  of  pious 
people  won't  accept.  But  it  isn't  in  that  direction 
the  poem  drives  home  most  sharply ;  it  is  in  the  test 
of  the  man.  A  man  needn't  have  a  grandfather 
and  four  uncles  '  elders  in  the  Sixth  Presbyterian 
Church,'  to  make  him  behave  decently.  I  ad- 
mire that  chap  for  acknowledging  his  weakness  by 
running  away  from  temptation,  but  I  despise  the 
weakness  in  human  nature  that  must  regard  such 
a  frank  and  honest  confession  as  a  temptation. 
Let  me  read  these  appealing  lines : 

"  I  spend  my  life  in  a  warren  of  worried  men. 
In  and  out  and  to  and  fro 
And  up  and  down  in  electric  elevators 
That  rush  about  and  speak  each  other. 
Hurrying  on  to  finish  the  deal. 


<k2        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Hurrying  home  to  wash  and  eat  and  sleep, 
Hurrying  to  love  a  little  maybe 
Between  the  dark  and  dawn 
Or  cuddle  a  tired  child, 
Who  blinks  to  see  his  father. 

"  I  hurry  too  but  with  a  sense 
That  Life  is  hurrying  faster 
And  will  catch  up  with  me. 

"  Right  in  the  middle  of  our  furious  activity 
Two  soft-voiced  barbers  in  a  little  room, 
White-tiled  and  fresh  and  smelling  deliciously. 
Flourish  their  glittering  tools, 
And  smile  and  barb, 

And  talk  about  the  war  and  stocks  and  the  Hono- 
lulu earthquake 
With  equal  impartiality. 

"  I  like  to  go  there. 
Time  seems  slow  and  patient 
While  they  tuck  me  up  in  white 
And  hover  over  me. 

The  room  gives  north  and  west  and  the  sunset  sky 
Lights  the  grey  river  to  a  ribbon  of  glory. 
Where  silhouetted  tugs, 
Like  tooting  beetles  fuss  about  their  smoky  busi- 


"  Besides,  in  that  high  place 
No  curious  passer-by 
Can  see  my  ignominious  bald  spot  treated  with  a 

tonic, 
Nor  can  a  lady  stop  and  bow  to  me,  my  chin  in 

lather. 
As  happened  once; 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE     48 

So  I  go  there  often 
And  even  take  a  book. 

■  There's  another  person  all  in  white 
Who  comes  and  goes  and  manicures  your  nails 
On  application. 
One  can  read  with  one  hand  while  she  does  the 

other. 
Because  I  feel  that  Life  is  hurrying  me  along 
With  horrid  haste 
Soon  to  desert  me  utterly, 
I  used  to  take  my  Inferno  in  my  pocket 
And  reflect  on  what  might  happen 
W^ere  I  among  the  usurers. 

One  day  a  low-pitched  voice  broke  in. 

I  listened  vaguely. 

What  was  the  woman  saying? 

*  Please  listen  for  a  moment.  Mister  Brown, 
I've  done  your  nails  for  almost  half  a  year; 
You've  never  looked  at  me.' 

I  looked  at  that. 

And  sure  enough  the  girl  was  young,  and  round  and 

sweet. 
She  coloured  as  I  turned  to  her. 
And  looked  away. 

I  waited  silently,  enjoying  her  confusion. 
The  words  had  been  shot  out  at  me 
And  now  apparently  she  wished  them  back. 
'  What  do  you  want  ?  '  I  said. 
Again  a  silence  while  she  rubbed  away. 
I  opened  my  Inferno  with  an  ironic  glance 
Towards  Paradiso  waiting  just  beyond. 

*  Well,  rub  away,  my  girl,'  I  thought, 
'  You  opened  up,  go  on.' 


44f        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  The  book  provoked  her. 
'  I'm  straight,'  she  said. 
'  I  never  talked  like  this  before. 
The  fellows  that  come  round  — 
Good  Lord ! 

Shovrin'  me  two  pink  ticket  corners 
Stickin'  out  the  pocket  of  their  vest, 
"  Say,  kid  —  tonight, —  you  know," 
Thinkin'  I'll  tumble 
For  a  ticket  to  a  show ! 
They  make  me  sick,  they  do. 
Boobs  like  that; 

You're  different.     I  want  to  know 
What's  in  that  book  you  read. 
I  want  to  hear  you  talk. 
Oh,  Mister,  I'm  so  lonesome! 
But  I'm  straight,  I  tell  you. 
I  read,  too,  every  evening  in  my  room. 
But  I  can't  ever  find 
The  books  you  have. 
I  expect  you  think  I'm  horrid 
To  talk  like  this  —  but  — 
I  got  some  things  by  an  Englishman 
From  the  Public  Library. 
Say,  they  were  queer  ! 
He  thinks  a  woman  has  a  right 
To  say  out  if  she  likes  a  man; 
He  thinks  they  do  the  looking 
Because  they  want  — 
Oh,  Mister,  I'm  so  terribly  ashamed 
I'll  die  when  I  get  home. 
An'  yet  I  had  to  speak  — - 
I'd  be  awful,  awful  good  to  you,  if  only. 
Please,  please,  don't  think  I'm  like  — 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE      4-5 

Don't  think  I'm  one  o'  them! 

Whatever  you  say,  don't,  don't  think  that !  ' 

"  She  stopped,  and  turned  to  hide  her  crying. 
I  looked  at  her  again. 
Looked  at  her  young  wet  eyes, 
At  her  abashed,  bent  head. 
Looked  at  her  sweet,  deft  hands 
Busy  with  mine  .  .  . 

"  But  — 

Not  for  nothing 

Were  my  grandfather  and  four  of  my  uncles 

Elders  in  the  Sixth  Presbyterian  Church, 

Situated  on  the  Avenue. 

Oh  not  for  nothing 

Was  I  led 

To  squirm  on  those  green  rep  seats 

One  day  in  seven. 

And  now. 

The  white-tiled,  sweetly-smelling  barber  shop 

Is  lost  to  me. 

What  a  pity !  " 

"  Mrs.  Aldis's  art  is  a  whole-hearted  expression 
of  life,"  Cassandra  began  when  Jason  had  finished. 
"  Among  the  lowly,  the  outcasts,  her  muse  goes 
visiting.  But  everywhere  it  goes  with  the  soft  step 
of  pity  and  sympathy ;  best  of  all  with  under- 
standing. Poems  like  '  Converse,'  '  Window-Wish- 
ing,' '  The  Sisters,'  and  all  the  *  Seven  Stories  in 
Metre,'  are  very  fine.     I  think  the  latter  are  quite 


46        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

as  good  in  their  way  as  Wilfred  W.  Gibson's  tales 
in  *  Fires  '  and  '  Womenkind.'  Why  such  things 
as  'The  Park  Bench,'  *  Ellie,'  'The  Prisoner,' 
and  — "  Cassandra  was  waxing  in  her  enthusi- 
asm, when  Jason  interrupted  with  a  touch  of 
irony :  — 

"  And  —  the  incomparable  and  poignant  realism 
of  modern  life  in  its  common  aspects,  shows  that 

American  poetry "  here  he  paused,  glancing 

at  me  with  the  air  of  one  who  acknowledges  but 
refuses  wholly  to  subscribe  to  another's  faith. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  go  on,"  I  urged ;  "  you  are  at  least 
approaching  the  right  shrine.  Perhaps,  you  will 
pray  a  bit  before  leaving,  when  you  realize  it  has 
performed,  and  can  still  perform,  miracles.  Here 
is  David  from  the  West,  a  living  testament  of  the 
new  age,  whose  poems  you  shall  hear  to  prove  it. 
It's  a  kind  of  miracle,  this  tender,  wistful  beauty," 
and  I  read  these  lines  from  memory : 

"  O,  Mocking  Bird, 
Sing  your  love  song  to  me. 
But  never  let  me  know 
The  words  you  use  in  your  singing, 
For  my  moods  need  ever  new  words 
And  you  have  only  a  few." 

"  And  I  came  all  the  way  to  these  New  Hamp- 
shire woods  to  learn  that,"  laughed  David. 
"  What  will  my  friend  Billy  Reedy  say  ?  " 

"  And  doesn't  Mrs.  Aldis,  in  the  lyrical  mood 
of  '  Brown  Sands,'  "  I  added,  "  give  us  a  similar 
feeling  of  a  genuine  poetic  spirit? 


SACERDOTAL  WONDER  OF  LIFE      47 

"  My  stallion  impatiently 
Stamps  at  my  side. 
Into  the  desert  far 
We  two  shall  ride. 

"  Brown  sands  around  us  fly. 
Winds  whistle  free, 
The  desert  is  sharing 
Gladness  with  me. 

"  The  madness  of  motion 
Is  mine  again. 
Forgotten  forever 
Sorrow  and  pain. 

"  Into  the  desert  far 
Swiftly  we  flee, 
Knowing  the  passionate 
Joy  of  the  free." 

When  I  finished,  Psyche  said :  "  Is  it  our  Puri- 
tanism, Mr.  O'Neil,  which  makes  us  unsympathetic 
with  life  close  at  hand,  and  very  passionate  in  our 
feeling  for  misery  half  a  world  away.''  " 


IV 

THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON 

We  were  not  exactly  out  of  tune  with  the  sur- 
roundings of  our  little  grove,  for  there  surged 
through  it  a  spirit  too  beautiful  not  to  bring  us 
up  to  an  emotional  obligation  of  what  we  owed  to 
Nature  in  her  ripest  and  most  bounteous  mood; 
but  even  here  the  echoes  and  sufferings  of  a  world 
at  war  penetrated;  and  for  a  while  we  just  sat 
with  a  sad  consciousness,  as  if  the  anguish  of  Eu- 
rope was  as  real  to  us  as  it  must  be  to  the  civil 
population  in  the  northern  provinces  of  France, 
in  Flanders,  Poland  and  Serbia. 

I  do  not  think  there  was  one  of  us  who  believed 
in  war,  not  Jason  even,  though  had  the  maternal 
consent  been  given  he  would  at  the  very  moment 
have  been  in  Picardy  instead  of  spending  the  sum- 
mer afternoon  with  three  agreeable  companions,  in 
the  cool  fragrance  of  pine  woods  expressing  his 
soul  about  poetry.  Two  of  our  party  hated  war 
vehemently,  and  Psyche  and  Cassandra,  in  doing 
so,  but  gave  voice  to  the  almost  universal  feeling 
which  the  women  of  the  world  have  towards  this 
most  cruel  and  destructive  of  all  wars.  Jason 
and  myself  accepted  this  war  as  a  necessary  evil. 

Since  it  had  come,  and  was  bound  to  come  as  the 

48 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      49 

re-reading  of  events  in  European  diplomacy  dur- 
ing the  past  fifteen  years  has  shown,  we  realized 
that  the  only  course  was  to  fight  it  out  to  its  end. 
That  end,  as  our  judgment  and  our  hopes  prom- 
ised, was  the  absolute  and  final  triumph  of  the 
Entente  Allies.  But  Psyche  and  Cassandra  could 
not  even  compromise  with  such  a  future ;  to 
them  the  conflict  was  hideous  and  brutal.  They 
could  distinguish  clearly  enough  the  principles  for 
which  the  two  sets  of  belligerents  were  fighting: 
world-dominion  on  one  side,  and  the  preservation 
of  democracy  and  freedom  of  national  life  on  ^1  i 
the  other ;  but  they  were  too  appalled  by  the  sav- 
agery and  ruthlessness  to  keep  in  view  the  end 
for  which  the  Allies  were  making  their  tremendous 
sacrifice  of  human  life. 

I  never  saw  a  soul  shrink  so  from  the  horror 
of  a  thing,  as  Psyche's  soul  from  the  thought  of 
this  war.  I  tried  to  make  her  understand  that 
the  war,  though  the  most  terrible  man  has  ever 
known,  was  different  from  any  other  because  — 
whatever  the  causes  of  its  beginning  —  it  has  de- 
veloped into  the  most  spiritual  conflict  nations 
have  ever  waged. 

"  Nations  have  fought  for  all  sorts  of  ideals 
and  principles,"  I  said,  "  from  the  dawn  of  his- 
tory to  the  Napoleonic  wars,  but  the  French  Revo- 
lution was  the  first  conflict  of  conscience,  our  own 
Civil  War  was  the  second,  and  this  World  War 
is  the  third  —  and  God  grant,  the  last.  Eu- 
rope, to-day,  is  not  fighting  for  the  sake  of  kings 
and  courts  —  responsible  as  the  Prussian  Junker 


-U^^ 

.-v-^ 


50        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

is  for  the  calamitous  breakdown  of  civilization  — 
nor  for  aristocracies  nor  capitalists ;  the  bat- 
tle is  for  humanity,  the  political  independence 
of  states  and  the  social  freedom  of  the  individual. 
Not  the  men  who  are  fighting  in  the  cabinets  or 
field-headquarters,  but  those  who  are  fighting  in 
the  trenches  are  going  to  dictate  the  terms  of 
peace.  The  diplomatists  may  sit  around  the  table 
of  the  peace  congress,  but  all  they  do  and  say 
will  be  commanded  by  those  watching  millions  at 
home  who  have  paid  the  price  of  victory.  For 
these  men  are  going  home, —  to  homes  which  their 
absence  has  altered,  to  families  that  have  done 
their  bit  of  sacrifice  too, —  from  the  trenches,  con- 
scious of  a  great  truth,  a  great  aspiration,  and  a 
great  strength ;  and  they  are  going  to  say,  with  a 
mighty  voice,  the  voice  of  humanity  delivered  from 
the  thraldom  of  diplomacy  and  a  minority  class 
government,  that :  '  This  kind  of  murder  must 
stop.  We  have  been  crucified ;  our  wives,  chil- 
dren, and  parents,  have  been  crucified.  Through 
this  redemption  we  have  won  everlasting 
Peace ! '  " 

It  was  evident  nobody  cared  to  comment  on  what 
I  had  said.  Psyche  sat  musing  at  the  distance 
which  was  limited  everywhere  by  the  woods.  Cas- 
sandra was  also  preoccupied  with  thoughts  which 
her  face  would  not  betray.  I  turned  to  Jason,  and 
he  sat  with  his  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
smoking,  blowing  rings  of  smoke  into  the  air.  I 
waited  some  seconds,  and  as  no  one  seemed  inclined 
to  break  the  silence  I  took  my  copy  of  Mr.  Ad- 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      51 

cock's   "  Songs   of  the  World   War,"   and  began 
reading  "  The  Path  of  Peace."     It  went : 

"  O  brothers,  though  we  fight  in  hostile  powers, 
We  covet  not  your  country,  nor  you  ours ; 
Too  long  we  wrecked  each  other's  life  in  vain; 
Whoever  won,  not  ours  nor  yours  the  gain; 
We  are  the  common  people ;  from  of  old 
We  have  been  duped  and  driven,  bought  and  sold. 
Ours  but  to  blast  each  other  down  in  hordes 
And  thus  exalt  our  Kaisers  and  our  Lords; 
Too  long,  an  ignorant  and  a  slavish  folk. 
We  humbly  bowed  and  bore  that  blighting  yoke. 
Bore  it  for  ends  we  never  understood. 
Obeyed  our  Masters  —  for  our  Masters'  good ; 
But  now  (untaught,  unlettered  now  no  more) 
We  are  not  the  blind  brutes  we  were  of  yore, 
Knowledge  is  sight  —  we  know,  and  see,  and  feel, 
And  may  no  more  like  dogs  be  brought  to  heel. 
To-day,  one  War  Lord's  raw,  barbaric  laws 
Leave  us  no  choice:  we  rise  in  Freedom's  cause 
And  sacrifice  to  her  our  fellow  men 
On  the  hell-altars  he  has  built  again ; 
But  when  the  task  is  done,  and  in  our  tread 
We  hear  a  bleak  world  weeping  for  its  dead. 
And  see  the  hopes  his  blood-lust  has  abased. 
The  homes  this  shoddy  Caesar  has  laid  waste, 
O  then,  to  saner,  prouder  manhood  grown, 
Shall  we  not  hurl  him  from  his  pinchbeck  throne  ?  — 
Not  now  by  priestly  prayers,  nor  foolish  pride 
Of  kingly  state,  is  murder  sanctified  — 
O  then,  that  squalid  throne  to  ruin  hurled, 
Shall  we  not  —  we,  the  workers  of  the  world. 
The  common  peoples  of  all  countries,  find 
A  kinship  in  our  common  humankind, 


52         THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And,  scorning  childish  cant  of  wealth  and  caste, 
Join  hands  in  one  great  brotherhood  at  last. 
Subdue  our  Masters  to  that  equal  law, 
And  rule  ourselves,  and  make  an  end  of  War  ? 

"  Though  our  hearts  ache,  and  darkness  veils  our  eyes, 
Our  sorrows  are  but  angels  in  disguise, 
If  from  War's  red  field,  when  this  strife  shall  cease,  . 
Blooms  the  white  flower  of  Universal  Peace. 

"  So,  from  far  off,  the  listening  spirit  hears 
A  music  of  the  spheres; 
Though  heard   too  close,  their   sweet  accord  may 

round 
To  one  gross  roll  of  sound. 

"  And  War,  that  with  its  thunderous  gloom  and  gleam 
Storms  through  our  days,  may  seem. 
By  peaceful  hearths,  in  some  far-coming  year, 
A  music  that  was  discord  heard  too  near. 

"  The  soul  of  Beauty  walks  with  aspect  sad. 
And  not  in  beauty  clad; 

But  when  God's  angels  come,  their  passing  by 
Blinds  us  like  light  too  nigh. 

"  But  the  too-dazzling  day  that  dims  our  sight 
Leads  us  when  all  its  light, 
Upgathered  in  Night's  lifted  hands  afar. 
Orbs  to  the  still  perfection  of  a  star. 

Mr.  Adcock  has  admirably  expressed  in  these  lines 
what  the  world  is  thinking  to-day,"  I  appended 
to  my  reading. 

Jason's  thoughts,  like  a  jack-in-the-box,  sprang 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      53 

from  the  revery  in  which  his  mind  had  been  sealed. 
I  concluded  that  his  spirit  was  laboring  in  the 
silence  he  kept,  and  it  was  a  kind  of  relief  for  him 
to  come  to  in  a  vein  of  humor.  "  The  witticism  of 
Mr.  Squire's  verses  is  a  good  tonic  for  the  war- 
ridden  system  of  the  world.  He  may  not  array 
himself  in  samite  as  your  inspired  idealist,  but  he 
preaches  pretty  nearly  the  same  gospel  though 
drunk  with  a  libation  tart  as  vinegar.  What  a 
difficult  task  he  shows  us  is  the  neutrality  of 
Heaven,  in  this  nasty  scrap  across  the  ocean.  It 
is  set  down  in  a  poem  most  aptly  called  *  The 
Dilemma  ' : 

"  God  heard  the  embattled  nations  sing  and  shout 
'  Gott  strafe  England ! '  and  '  God  save  the  King ! ' 
God  this,  God  that,  and  God  the  other  thing  — 
'  Good  God ! '  said  God, '  I've  got  my  work  cut  out.'  " 

I  tried  to  ignore  this  epigrammic  levity  by 
turning  to  Psyche  and  picking  up  the  threads  of 
her  objection  to  the  war.  "  You  see,"  I  said,  "  be- 
hind the  physical  horror  of  it,  which  affects  us  all 
alike,  there  is  a  spiritual  exaltation,  cleansing  and 
reo-enerative  —  the  world-wide  vision  of  a  free  hu- 
manity." 

"  The  war  is  all  wrong,  all  wrong,"  uttered 
Psyche  passionately.  The  simple,  blind  truth  of 
her  statement  seemed  to  take  the  point  out  of  my 
argument.  "  It  is  wrong  because  it  makes  the 
sacrifice  of  that  pure  Man  of  Galilee  a  mockery. 
His  gospel  of  peace  and  good-will,  we  have  made, 
for  nineteen  hundred  vears,  the  cornerstone  of  our 


54        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

social  existence.  Professing  our  absolute  faith  in 
His  teachings,  we  desecrate,  with  hands  of  violence 
and  lips  of  hatred,  the  very  altar  before  which  we 
kneel  for  hope  and  mercy.  How  can  man  be  so 
false  .P  Why  can't  he  be  honest  with  himself,  and 
virtuous  in  dealing  with  his  brother,  and  live  in 
harmony  with  the  Christian  doctrines  he  professes, 
and  strive  for  the  high  goal  one  sees  vaguely  raised 
in  radiant  dreams  behind  the  gloom  of  this  war, 
without  all  the  destruction  and  misery  now  loose  in 
the  world  ?  " 

"  Because,  Psyche,"  Jason  answered,  "  man  must 
suffer  and  destroy  to  advance.  No  individual  is 
greater  than  humanity ;  and  this  war  is  one  of  the 
symptoms  of  man's  spiritual  disease.  When  you 
look  at  it  clearly  and  unflinchingly,  all  ways  are 
dark  ways,  as  that  young  poet  of  the  Irish  Revolu- 
tionary Brotherhood,  Joseph  Mary  Plunkett,  ex- 
pressed it.     Listen,"  and  Jason  read : 

"  Rougher  than  death  the  road  I  choose. 
Yet  shall  my  feet  not  walk  astray. 
Though  dark,  my  way  I  shall  not  lose. 
For  this  way  is  the  darkest  way. 

"  Set  but  a  limit  to  the  loss 
And  something  shall  at  last  abide, 
The  blood-stained  beams  that  formed  the  cross, 
The  thorns  that  crowned  the  crucified; 

"  But  who  shall  lose  all  things  in  One, 
Shut  out  from  Heaven  and  the  Pit 
Shall  lose  the  darkness  and  the  sun, 
The  finite  and  the  infinite; 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      55 

"  And  who  shall  see  in  one  small  flower 
The  chariots  and  the  thrones  of  night 
Shall  be  in  peril  from  that  hour 
Of  blindness  and  the  endless  night; 

"  And  who  shall  hear  in  one  short  name 
Apocalyptic  thunders  seven 
His  heart  shall  flicker  like  a  flame 
'Twixt  Hell's  gates  and  the  gates  of  Heaven. 

"  For  I  have  seen  your  body's  grace, 
The  miracle  of  the  flowering  rod, 
And  in  the  beauty  of  your  face 
The  glory  of  the  face  of  God, 

"  And  I  have  heard  the  thunderous  roll 
Clamoured  from  heights  of  prophecy. 
Your  splendid  name,  and  from  my  soul 
Uprose  the  clouds  of  minstrelsy. 

"  Now  I  have  chosen  in  the  dark 
The  desolate  way  to  walk  alone 
Yet  strive  to  keep  alive  one  spark 
Of  your  known  grace  and  grace  unknown; 

"  And  when  I  leave  you  lest  my  love 
Should  seal  your  spirit's  ark  with  clay 
Spread  your  bright  wings,  O  shining  Dove  — 
But  my  way  is  the  darkest  way." 

"  It  was  a  terribly  dark  way  those  poor  young 
Irishmen  took,"  said  Cassandra ;  "  and  I  wonder  if 
it  will  help  their  nation  to  reach  the  presence  of  the 
Shining  Dove  of  liberty  ?  I  cannot  help  but  think 
that  they  were  wrong  from  a  commonsense  point  of 


56        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

view.  Beauty  was  crushed  and  light  darkened 
when  their  lives  went  out.  Mr.  Colum  writes,  in 
his  introduction  to  the  poems  of  these  Irish  dream- 
ers and  patriots,  '  These  are  poems  by  Combat- 
ants. Their  combat  is  passionate,  intellectual, 
spiritual;  in  the  end  it  exists  for  a  country,  and, 
to  paraphrase  the  last  line  of  Casement's  sonnet, 
to  win  a  rock  where  Celtic  faith  should  bide  its 
vow.'  The  commonsense  point  of  view,  of  which  I 
spoke,  for  the  moment,  is  for  expediency,  which 
time  will  dissolve  into  the  finer  motive  of  these 
patriots.  We  may  or  may  not  sympathize  with 
the  sentiment  which  took  sudden  action  to  disrupt 
the  unity  of  an  empire  when  that  empire  was 
threatened  by  a  ruthless  enemy  without.  We 
should,  however,  respect  the  convictions  of  these 
poet-patriots  to  the  cause  of  Ireland,  which  no  one 
will  deny  has  a  measure  of  right  on  its  side.  So 
I  can't  help  but  believe  that  the  benefit  of  their 
sacrifice  was  more  than  national.  This  may  ap- 
pear to  contradict  what  I  said  a  moment  ago,  but 
it  really  doesn't.  What  I  mean  is,  that  expres- 
sions so  full  of  death  and  denial  and  self-abnega- 
tion, as  the  poems  of  these  Irishmen,  teach  us  the 
high  and  eternal  value  of  spiritual  life.  They  were 
conscious  of  failure  in  the  mere  physical  accom- 
plishments of  their  aims ;  they  courageously  threw 
away  their  lives  for  a  cause,  in  which  they  nobly 
and  unselfishly  became  the  seeds  of  a  future  tri- 
umph. Can  they  be  counted  as  failures,  then? 
The  nearest  answer  is  in  these  poems.  Here  is 
one,  '  Of  a  Poet  Patriot ' : 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      57 

"  His  songs  were  a  little  praise 
Of  eternal  song. 
Drowned  in  the  harping  of  lays 
More  loud  and  long. 

"  His  deeds  were  a  single  word 
Called  out  alone 
In  a  night  when  no  echo  stirred 
To  laughter  or  moan. 

"  But  his  songs  new  souls  shall  thrill, 
The  loud  harps  dumb, 
And  his  deed  the  echoes  fill 
When  the  dawn  is  come." 


« 


Let  me  read,"  pleaded  Psyche,  "  Thomas  Mac- 
Donagh's  poem,  '  Wishes  for  My  Son,'  whose 
tenderness  is  enough  to  moisten  men's  eyes  in 
memory  of  this  Irishman: 

"  Now,  my  son,  is  life  for  you. 
And  I  wish  you  joy  of  it, — 
Joy  of  power  in  all  you  do. 
Deeper  passion,  better  wit 
Than  I  had  who  had  enough. 
Quicker  life  and  length  thereof. 
More  of  every  gift  but  love. 

"  Love  I  have  beyond  all  men, 
Love  that  now  you  share  with  me  — 
What  have  I  to  wish  you  then 
But  that  you  be  good  and  free. 
And  that  God  to  you  may  give 
Grace  in  stronger  days  to  live? 


58        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  For  I  wish  you  more  than  I 
Ever  knew  of  glorious  deed. 
Though  no  rapture  passed  me  by 
That  an  eager  heart  could  heed, 
Though  I  followed  heights  and  sought 
Things  the  sequel  never  brought : 

"  Wild  and  perilous  holy  things 
Flaming  with  a  martyr's  blood. 
And  the  joy  that  laughs  and  sings 
Where  a  foe  must  be  withstood, 
Joy  of  headlong  happy  chance 
Leading  on  the  battle  dance. 

"  But  I  found  no  enemy. 
No  man  in  a  world  of  wrong, 
That  Christ's  word  of  Charity 
Did  not  render  clean  and  strong  — 
Who  was  I  to  judge  my  kind. 
Blindest  groper  of  the  blind  ? 

"  God  to  you  may  give  the  sight 
And  the  clear  undoubting  strength 
Wars  to  knit  for  single  right, 
Freedom's  war  to  knit  at  length, 
And  to  win,  through  wrath  and  strife. 
To  the  sequel  of  my  life. 

"  But  for  you,  so  small  and  young. 
Born  on  Saint  Cecilia's  Day, 
I  in  more  harmonious  song 
Now  for  nearer  joys  should  pray  — 
Simple  joys:  the  natural  growth 
Of  your  childhood  and  your  youth. 
Courage,  innocence,  and  truth: 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      59 

"  These  for  you,  so  small  and  young, 
In  your  hand  and  heart  and  tongue." 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Cassandra,  to  whom  Psyche's 
reading  of  the  poem  brought  a  deeper  tinge  of  sad- 
ness for  the  fate  of  the  poet-patriot,  "  they  were 
very  wrong  in  the  method,  but  somehow  very,  very 
right  in  the  deed." 

*'  Isn't  that  a  paradox?  "  asked  Jason. 

"  That's  her  privilege,  being  a  woman,"  I  ex- 
plained, "  and  doubly  her  privilege  speaking  about 
Irishmen.  But  I  think  I  see  her  point.  Ireland 
may  be  under  the  spell  of  the  patriot,  but  the  world 
is  honoring  and  praising  the  poet.  Would  it  be 
surprising,  after  all,  if  the  world  takes  from  Sir 
Roger  Casement's  sonnet  '  Hamilcar  Barca  '  the 
final  meaning  of  that  explosive  Easter  Sunday  .f*" 
And  I  read  these  lines : 

"  Thou  that  did'st  mark  from  Heirote's  spacious  hill 
The  Roman  spears,  like  mist,  uprise  each  morn. 
Yet  held,  with  Hesper's  shining  point  of  scorn, 
Thy  sword  unsheathed  above  Panormus  still ; 
Thou  that  wert  leagued  with  nought  but  thine  own 

will, 
Eurythmic  vastness  to  that  stronghold  torn 
From  foes  above,  below,  where,  though  forlorn. 
Thou  still  hadst  claws  to  cling  and  beak  to  kill  — 
Eagle  of  Eryx !  —  when  the  iEgatian  shoal 
Rolled  westward  all  the  hopes  that  Hanno  wrecked, 
With  mighty  wing,  unwearying,  did'st  thou 
Seek  far  beyond  the  wolf's  grim  protocol, 
Within  the  Iberian  sunset  faintly  specked 
A  rock  where  Punic  faith  should  bide  its  vow." 


60         THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  I  would  like  to  know,"  Jason  asked,  "  if  we  are 
to  cherish  the  patriot  or  the  poet  in  Mr.  Viereck's 
book  of  Armageddon?  I  have  never  believed  that 
Mr.  Viereck  was  a  true  poet,  and  I  am  sure  he  has 
not  proved  himself  a  very  good  patriot  —  that  is, 
to  the  country  in  which  he  has  become  a  citizen, 
and  which  has  permitted  his  egotism  to  have  the 
freest  play." 

"  Strangely  enough,"  I  replied,  "  to  me  Mr. 
Viereck  has  proved  himself  a  better  poet  in  this 
book  of  Armageddon,  than  in  any  volume  he  has 
published.  Of  course,  I  don't  at  all  subscribe  to 
his  opinions,  and  his  betrayal  of  our  national  hos- 
pitality ;  but  I  do  think  his  emotions,  disagreeable 
as  they  may  be,  are  genuine  in  this  book,  which  they 
did  not  seem  to  be  in  those  earlier,  frothy  emana- 
tions of  his.  He  has  never  written  anything  more 
genuine  than  the  little  poem  called  '  The  Doubles.'  " 

"  And  so  he  is  to  be  forgiven  for  such  poems  as 
'Wilhelm  H.,  Prince  of  Peace,'  'The  Neutral,' 
'  Italy  —  1915,'  and  '  The  German  American  to 
His  Adopted  Country,'  because  he  writes  so  lovely 
a  thing  as  '  The  Doubles  '.?  "  asked  Jason. 

"  They  determine  their  own  worth,"  I  answered, 
without  compromise  to  either  point  of  view. 

"  Yes,"  scoffed  Jason,  "  the  delicious  irony  of 
*  Wilhelm  II.,  Prince  of  Peace,'  which  I  am  not 
going  to  quote  because  I  deliberately  court  anger 
now  and  then,  is  a  commendable  poetic  virtue  — 
when  it  is  fortified  with  truth.  But  this  poem 
holds  to  fact  the  kind  of  truth  which  Prussian  pa- 
ternalism has  to  democracy." 


THE  CHANT  OF  ARMAGEDDON      61 

I  had  no  comment  to  make.  We  were  all  a  little 
irritated  in  remembering  the  tone  of  the  verses, 
and  thought  it  best  to  let  Jason's  remarks  pass. 
Psyche  presently  spoke.  It  was  in  a  key  wholly 
unexpected.  "  Oh,  life  is  better  than  we  make 
it,"  she  said,  "  and,  after  all,  a  lapse  in  any  direc- 
tion does  not  wholly  spoil  the  harmony  of  exist- 
ence. I  suppose,  war  is  only  a  lapse  on  a  gigantic 
scale.  Browning  was  right  to  make  Pippa  joyous 
and  prophetic.  *  What's  all  wrong  to-day  will  be 
all  right  to-morrow ! '  " 


PEACOCK  PIE 

We  had  fallen  into  a  desultory  discussion  on  the 
way  to  the  grove  on  the  prodigality  of  nature. 
The  woods  had  never  been  so  wonderful  as  this 
year.  The  carpeting  of  moss  on  the  ground  was 
lovely,  and  of  a  rich  shade  of  green,  clustered 
thick  with  tiny  flowers,  all  of  whose  names  I  did 
not  know,  as  the  heavens  are  with  stars.  They 
were  of  all  shapes  and  colors,  from  a  wine  red  star 
to  a  delicate  pale  green  trumpet.  The  mountain 
laurel  was  profuse,  and  in  one  swampy  hollow 
where  we  found  it  on  a  rainy  day,  its  transparent 
pink  and  white  blossoms  gave  me  a  Watteau-like 
emotion  of  fragility.  The  underbrush  here  was 
very  tangled,  making  a  network  of  vines  and  foliage 
about  the  fallen  branches  and  tree  trunks ;  and  I 
rather  cherish  the  picture  of  Psyche,  breaking 
through  brush  high  as  her  waist,  and  getting  thor- 
oughly wet,  in  gathering  great  armfuls  of  the 
secluded  blossoms.  The  open  spaces  in  woods 
were  full  of  the  largest  daisies  I  had  ever  seen. 
Poets  have  called  the  daisies  regal,  but  these  were 
the  first  that  my  eyes  beheld  really  having  the 
pomp   of  sceptre  and   crown.     Their   stems  were 

stately  and  tall,  and  their  great  long  petals  made 

62 


PEACOCK  PIE  63 

a  circle  of  bright  shields  around  the  gorgeous 
golden  domes. 

The  ashes  from  the  forest  fires  of  the  previous 
year  had  fertilized  all  this  beauty  in  the  flowers, 
ferns  and  moss.  The  incessantly  wet  spring  re- 
tarding the  blossoming  of  flowers  had  preserved 
odors  and  colors  in  their  freshness  and  perfection 
beyond  the  calendar  period  of  maturity.  "  Na- 
ture is  a  wonderful  artist,"  remarked  Psyche,  hold- 
ing in  her  fingers  a  wild  orchid  she  plucked  from 
the  bank  of  the  stagnant  stream  along  the  car 
tracks  we  crossed  on  our  way  from  The  Farm. 
"  Man  can  never  make  anything  so  beautiful  for 
all  his  subtle  devising  of  materials." 

"  That's  a  truth  it  seems  almost  foolish  to  ques- 
tion," I  commented.  "  But  the  more  astonishing 
speculation  to  engage  my  interest,  is  the  remark- 
able anthologist  which  nature  proves  herself  to 
be." 

"Nature  creates,  but  does  she  select?"  asked 
Cassandra.  "  We  speak  of  man  creating  —  in 
music,  painting,  sculpture,  poetry  —  in  all  the 
arts;  but  does  he?  Doesn't  he  merely  select  and 
copy  ?  You  remember  in  that  stupendous  poem  by 
Anna  Hempstead  Branch,  '  Nimrod,'  she  says  that 
'  Man  has  never  created  a  new  virtue.'  Well,  did 
man  ever  create  a  new  beauty?  All  the  virtues  and 
all  the  beauties  were  here  when  he  came,  or  arrived 
in  his  evolution  at  a  mental  or  spiritual  state  where 
he  could  distinguish  and  appreciate  them.  Then 
he  found  them,  both  the  virtues  and  the  beauties, 
so  necessary  to  his  happiness   that  he  began   to 


64        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

copy  and  idealize  them  in  symbols  of  his  own  mak- 
ing. These  took  the  form  of  language,  sound,  pig- 
ments, clay,  stone  and  metal.  Man  is  still  primary 
in  his  use  of  these  materials  compared  with  the 
subtle  and  infinite  variety  of  nature's  creative  proc- 
esses." 

"  I  think  Cassandra  has  stated  the  case  for  na- 
ture convincingly,"  agreed  Jason.  "  She  is  only 
an  anthologist  in  her  distribution,  her  grouping 
and  arrangement  of  the  creations  for  which  she  is 
alone  responsible." 

"  Well,  even  in  this  phase  of  her  ceaseless  and 
mysterious  activity,"  I  said,  as  we  arrived  at  the 
grove  and  settled  comfortably  upon  the  ground, 
under  the  cool  and  fragrant  protection  of  our  pine, 
"  man  copies  the  editorial  capacity  of  nature." 

The  remark  amused  Psyche.  "  Nature,  an  edi- 
tor, as  well  as  an  artist !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  won- 
der if  the  anemone,  or  the  dandelion,  is  critical 
of  her  judgment.  The  rhododendron  might  com- 
plain that  she  does  not  give  it  enough  sun  and  too 
much  shade.  The  common  flowers  like  the  butter- 
cup and  daisy  ought  to  object  that  their  grouping 
is  too  profuse,  and  do  not  present  the  same  attrac- 
tion for  the  eye  as  the  wild  rose,  or  the  mountain 
laurel,  in  the  anthology  of  woods  and  fields.  Poets 
are  like  flowers, —  hasn't  the  sentimentalist  said  so 
time  and  again  ;  and  I  daresay,  could  we  know,  flow- 
ers are  like  poets  ;  the  dandelion  wants  to  be  a  rose ! 
How  many  poets  dream  of  being  a  Shakespeare,  a 
Shelley,  a  Tennyson,  or  a  Browning." 

"  The  dandelions  and  anemones  among  poets  — 


PEACOCK  PIE  65 

or  to  be  flat  and  off^ensive  about  it,  the  minor  poet 
—  ought  not  to  complain,"  Jason  presented  his 
opinion,  "  since  the  only  immortality  many  of  them 
have  a  chance  to  win,  is  in  the  pages  of  some  an- 
thology. In  all  the  books  they  may  write  or  pub- 
lish, and  which  the  world  at  large  never  hears  of, 
is  a  perfect  poem  or  two,  and  some  discerning  an- 
thologist discovers  them,  rescues  and  preserves  that 
bit  of  beauty  for  posterity  in  a  book  of  selections." 

"  It  was  this  very  thought  of  Jason's  that  set 
me  to  a  little  task  of  arithmetic,"  I  informed  my 
companions.  "  When  I  finished  reading  the  five 
anthologies  feeding  our  poetic  appetite  this  week, 
I  counted  the  number  of  poets  they  contained  and 
the  number  of  poems." 

"  Why,  I  did  the  very  same  thing,"  interrupted 
Cassandra.  "  I  was  curious  to  discover  how  many 
of  the  poets  I  knew  and  how  many  were  unknown 
to  me.  I  found  there  were  two  hundred  and 
eighty-seven  poets  and  five  hundred  and  ninety- 
eight  poems." 

"  That's  exactly  my  count,"  I  said.  "  The  new 
names  were,  indeed,  very  numerous.  Such  com- 
pilations as  the  '  Chicago  Anthology  '  and  '  A  Book 
of  Princeton  Verse,'  furnished  most  of  them, 
though  that  radical  '  bower  of  dainty  devices,' 
edited  by  Mr.  Kreymborg,  presented  a  good  share 
of  innocents.  But  the  point  is,"  I  reminded  my 
companions,  "  that  a  number  of  these  poets  would 
be  entirely  lost  in  oblivion,  if  the  best  of  what  they 
accomplished  had  not  been  preserved  in  collections 
of  this  sort." 


66        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Well,"  said  Psyche,  "  this  book  of  Princeton 
verse,  with  its  '  annual '  dated,  and  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg's  anthology  of  '  new  '  verse,  are  following  in 
missionary  footsteps." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  I  protested.  "The 
good  that  is  being  accomplished  for  the  art  of 
poetry  in  these  efforts,  is  too  important  for  one  to 
quibble  about  the  honor  of  an  idea.  Let's  rather 
be  frank  about  the  quality  of  the  performance  in 
itself.  That  is  the  attitude  I  desire  towards  any 
effort  of  my  own.  Honesty  of  opinion  and  convic- 
tion are  the  virtues  I  demand  in  critics.  If  they 
have  these  I  can  respect,  even  admire,  their  differ- 
ences to  the  point  of  severe  censure." 

"  But  isn't  there  something  to  be  said  of  the 
manner  in  expressing  a  difference  of  opinion.''  " 
asked  Cassandra. 

"  Oh,  that  takes  care  of  itself,  in  my  belief,"  I 
answered.  "  The  force  of  an  argument  is  often 
defeated  by  impoliteness,  loss  of  temper,  or  bitter- 
ness. A  truth  sponsored  by  these  feelings  is 
a  truth  robbed  of  dignity,  and  neglected  by 
those  who  really  believe  in  it  because  of  shabbi- 
ness." 

*'  Oh,  that's  not  bad  as  an  aphorism,"  said 
Jason,  "  if  you  had  clothed  it  with  brevity.  I 
fancy  Oscar  Wilde  would  have  said,  '  Truth  with 
the  parentage  of  bad  manners  grows  in  shabbiness 
to  be  scorned  by  rich  relatives,'  and  added  an- 
other jewel  to  the  crown  of  his  wit  and  wisdom. 
As  for  you,  you  send  an  excellent  thought  begging 
for  the  appropriate  company  of  speech." 


PEACOCK  PIE  67 


(( 


I  am  not  at  all  jealous  of  your  superior  gift, 
Jason,  orphaning  four  words,"  I  responded.  "  A 
little  energy  on  your  part  and  we  would  have  a 
renaissance  of  comedy." 

"  It  is  woman's  duty  to  be  patient  —  when  men 
exercise  their  wit,"  Cassandra  remarked,  address- 
ing herself  to  Psyche.  "  It's  an  intolerable  bur- 
den. I  am  sure  Eve  tasted  the  apple  in  despera- 
tion because  of  Adam's  jokes.  You  see  there  was 
no  one  else  to  listen  to  their  eternal  repetition. 
Sharing  her  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  Adam  be- 
came a  serious  man  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
That  knowledge  saddled  him  with  a  family  to  sup- 
port and  no  time  for  joking.  And  man  has  never 
been  grateful  to  woman  for  giving  him  a  sense  of 
dignity." 

Psyche  was  amused,  and  the  rest  of  us  reflected 
her  amusement.  "  Let  us  turn  to  serious  affairs," 
she  said.  "  I'm  just  aching  to  say  what  a  fine  book 
is  Mrs.  Waldo  Richards'  '  High  Tide.'  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  book,  or  the  poems  for  which 
the  book  was  made.'*  "  asked  Jason.  "  You  know 
people  confuse  the  two."  We  were  all  perplexed 
for  a  moment,  searching  for  his  meaning. 
Psyche's  face  showed  clearly  she  was  pained  as 
well.  That  hurt  caught  Jason  unaware.  "  Please, 
Psyche,"  he  beseeched  for  pardon,  "  people  have 
such  a  vague  notion  of  what  makes  a  book.  Type, 
paper  and  binding  make  a  book ;  the  substance  of 
thought  and  feeling  to  which  words  give  expression 
is  really  not  a  book,  it  may  be  drama,  novel,  phi- 
losophy, history,  biography,  poetry,  for  the  com- 


68         THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

munication  or  presentation  of  which,  a  book  is  de- 
sicrned,  just  as  a  Pullman  car  is  designed  to  carry 
a  certain  lot  of  humanity  from  one  city  to  another. 
So  the  book  may  be  tine  and  the  contents  anything 
the  human  mind  has  made  it." 

Psvche,  as  the  rest  of  us,  took  the  explanation 
in  good  part,  though  I  could  not  help  but  remark, 
for  her  sake,  that  the  point  was  a  little  irrelevant. 
•'  If  we  begun."  I  said,  •"  defining  the  terms  of 
speech  we  would  get  hopelessly  nowhere  with  our 
meaning  of  things.  People  get  accustomed  to  cer- 
tain words  and  phrases  meaning  pretty  definitely 
a  particular  thing,  and  in  spite  of  the  rage  and 
despair  of  granunarians,  usage  gives  legitimacy  to 
acquired  connotations.*' 

••  Well,  it's  a  pretty  muddled  world  after  all," 
Jason  surrendered.  *'  and  I  don't  suppose  language 
can  Hve  in  a  state  of  purity  when  there  is  a  touch 
of  corruption  in  everything  else." 

"  You  need  to  be  reminded,  Jason,"  was  Psyche's 
rejoinder,  "  that  the  sub-title  of  Mrs.  Richards' 
antholoCTv  is  "  Songs  of  Jov  and  Msion  from  the 
Present-Dav  Poets  of  America  and  Great  Britain.' 
The  hopeful  outlook  the  book  gives  upon  the  life 
of  man  is  a  fine  corrective  for  the  mood  of  pessi- 
mism. This  is  why  to  me  it  is  the  most  important 
of  these  collections." 

"  I  agree  that  the  book  —  with  apologies  to 
Jason  —  contains  some  of  the  best  contemporary 
work  that  has  been  done  by  English  and  American 
poets.  The  selections  are  chosen  with  the  purpose 
of  expressing  the  highest  spiritual  impulse  of  hu- 


PEACOCK  PIE  69 

man  nature ;  but  it  also  contains  some  very  indif- 
ferent work,"  I  said. 

"  It  is  true,  all  the  same,"  broke  in  Jason,  '*  that 
for  a  sane,  comfortable  view  of  the  human  spirit, 
in  its  joys  and  visions,  it's  the  kind  of  a  collection 
that  people  who  will  not  read  many  poets  for  them- 
selves, or  perhaps,  any  poet  at  all  if  they  don't 
have  to,  will  enjoy  when  they  are  made  acquainted 
with  it.  I  should  say,"  he  reflected,  "  that  the 
collection  is  in  a  minor  key  what  Robert  Bridges' 
*  The  Spirit  of  Man,'  is  in  a  major  key." 

"  Then  in  what  key  would  you  put  '  A  Book  of 
Princeton  Verse  '.''  "  I  asked. 

"  Among  '  Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths 
diminish'd,'  "  Jason  quoted.  "  I  don't  know  what 
key  they're  in,  unless  the  key  of  youth  suffices. 
But  sureh'  the  '  dominant's  persistence,'  is  not  a 
characteristic,  though  I  presume  Psyche  would  pre- 
fer the  key,  whatever  you've  decided  to  call  it,  to 
the  '  commiserating  sevenths  '  of  Mr.  Kreymborg's 
anthology." 

"  I  am  sure  I  do,"  Psj-che  hastened  to  agree. 
"  This  Princeton  verse  is  very  interesting.  There 
is,  of  course,  none  of  the  absolute  ^'ulga^ity  that  is 
in  some  of  the  verse  in  ]\Ir.  Kreymborg's  book. 
The  atmosphere  of  youth  is  all  about  it,  which  is 
naturalh'  due  to  its  origin ;  and  there  is  the  note  of 
restraint,  to  me  the  most  vital  quality  of  the  youth- 
ful mind  —  it  is  only  physically  that  youth  aban- 
dons itself  —  which  ]Mr.  Xoyes  in  his  capacity  of 
sponsor  seems  to  favor.  The  future  of  some  of 
these  young  men  is  well  worth  watching.     All  the 


70        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

names  are  new  to  me,  and  only  lately  in  an  issue 
of  Scribner's  Magazine,  did  I  meet  with  any  of 
these  poets  in  another  place.  That  poet  is  Mr. 
Hamilton  Fish  Armstrong.  I  suppose  Scribner's 
ought  to  be  loyal  to  Princeton  poets,  since  the  pub- 
lishers and  editor  are  Princeton  men.  These 
Princeton  poets  are  very  conservative  and  tradi- 
tional, however,  which  may  be  somewhat  due  to  the 
influence  of  Mr.  Noyes.  Harvard  poets  are  much 
more  radical,  though  not  in  the  matter  of  form. 
There  is  an  acceptance  at  Cambridge  among  the 
undergraduates  of  Imagism ;  one  or  two  very  ex- 
cellent theses  were  written  on  the  subject,  for  hon- 
ors, but  they  fell  before  more  conservative  sub- 
jects. This  influence  is  not,  however,  shown  in  the 
college  poetry.  At  Yale,  I  am  told,  the  signifi- 
cance of  poetry  among  the  undergraduates  is  less 
marked.  Stephen  Vincent  Benet  is  the  shining  ex- 
ception. But  among  graduates  from  the  college 
of  recent  years,  are  a  number  of  poets  of  excep- 
tional talents." 

"  Our  colleges  and  universities  are  harvesting 
their  poets  as  one  of  the  fruits  of  culture,"  I  re- 
marked. "  Harvard,  Yale,  now  Princeton, —  and 
pretty  soon  Vassar, —  have  given  names  to  collec- 
tions of  verse  representative  of  the  work  done 
by  students  who  have  matriculated  at  these  insti- 
tutions." 

"  In  this  Princeton  book,"  Psyche  continued  the 
thread  of  her  previous  remarks,  "  there  are  some 
lovely  things ;  and  such  names  as  Hamilton  Fish 
Armstrong,  John  Peale  Bishop,  Harrington  Green, 


PEACOCK  PIE  71 

Francis  Charles  MacDonald,  and  Brooks  Hender- 
son, are,  I  am  certain,  to  be  heard  from  again. 
This  poem  of  Mr.  Bishop's,  *  Ganymede,'  has 
gleams  of  that  light  which  burned  in  the  hearts  of 
Keats  and  Shellej'."     And  Psyche  read : 

"  Filled  full  of  madness,  flushed   and  stained  with 
crimson, 
Round  the  courts  of  heaven  goes  a  fair,  swift 
throng. 
Hair  all  dishevelled,  crowned  with  bay  and  rose- 
leaves. 
Filling  all  the  heavens  with  a  wild,  sweet  song. 

"  Loud  shouts  and  laughter  shake  the  gilded  roof- 
trees. 
Love  entreats  a  chorus  and  the  gold  roof  rings ; 
Far  through  tlie  tumult  sounds  the  plaint  of  viols. 
Swift-kissing  symbals  and  faint  lute-strings. 

"  Dark-haired  and  dark-eyed,  Bacchus  young  and  gra- 
cious, 
Chapleted  with  violets  and  green  wild  vine. 
One  arm  uplifted,  tilts  his  glowing  chalice. 
Pouring  on  the  pavement  the  spiced  red  wine. 

"  Earth-born,  I  sicken  here  amid  the  wine-jars, 
Carved  of  cunning  ivory  with  pale  gold  laid; 
Now  swells  the  springtide  through  the  silent  green- 
wood. 
Now  the  grasses  brighten  in  the  sun-tinct  glade. 

"  Three  miles  from  Troy  town  lies  a  secret  meadow, 
Girt  with  green  recesses  which  the  sun  scarce 
cleaves ; 


72        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Cool-dewed  at  dawn,  and  at  noon  made  sweet  with 
grasses, 
Dusky-petalled  violets,  and  last  year's  leaves. 

"  Dark-banded,  girt  with  deep  serene  recesses, 

Where  the  noon  scarce  wakens  the  night-drowsed 
bee; 
Dusk-bound,  but  oh,  the  endless  sunny  billows. 
Clothed  with  waving  shadow  when  the  wind  runs 
free. 

"  Curled  golden  waters  ripple  in  the  sun  there, 

When  the  swallow  skims  through  the  sword-edged 
reeds. 
White-bellied,     bright-winged,     full     of     summer's 
music. 
Shedding  starry  spray  through  the  gray  marsh 
reeds. 

"  Clean-limbed  and  sun-hued,  the  happy  brave  com- 
panions 
Poised  in  naked  beauty  on  the  stream's  soft  rims. 
Arms  strained  behind  him,  till  the  sudden  signal 
Ploughs   the    shining  waters   with   their   brown, 
bright  limbs. 

"  There,  too,  they  wade  in  among  the  circling  shal- 
lows. 
Dip   their   tangled   fish-nets   in   the   cool   brown 
stream, 
One  edge  upholden,  one  beneath  the  surface, 

Gliding  where  the  crimson  and  steel  fins  gleam. 

"  Dew-sandalled,  fleet-foot,  racing  through  the  hol- 
lows 
Waking  hilly  echoes  with  a  boy's  light  cries; 


PEACOCK  PIE  73 

Or  haply  day-long  watching  white  and  silver 
Rise  in  cloudy  headlands  in  the  wide  blue  skies. 

"  Long  lasts  the  day  there,  in  the  happy  valley. 

Then   the  journey  homeward  to   the  safe  warm 
town; 
Full-orbed   the   moon   hangs   white   above   the   up- 
lands. 
Darker  grow  the  thickets  as  the  road  winds  down. 

"  Down  dusky  pathways,  through  the  dewy  orchard. 
Clothed    with    honied    blossom    where    the    gray 
moth  sips, 
Glad,  sad,  and  weary,  you  gain  the  trellised  door- 
way. 
Where  through  muffling  grape-vine  a  warm  light 
slips. 

"  Black  oaken  settles  stand  before  the  fireplace. 

Smoky,  stained  by  winter  in  the  good  years  dead ; 
Red  gleams  the  firelight  on  the  lustrous  copper; 
Softly    glow    the    tables    with    the    day's    feast 
spread. 

"  Dew-sweet  the  honey,  sweet  the  crumbling  wheat- 
cakes. 
Foaming  white  the  new  milk  in  brown  clay  jars; 
Last  the  tired  pallet  in  the  fragrant  bedroom 

Open  to  the  night-wind  and  the  large  white  stars. 

"  All  night  you  hear  the  sound  of  distant  waters 

Chafing  on  the  pebbles  in  the  sand-strewn  caves, 
Far-off  you  hear  them  crumbling  down  the  sea-cliff. 
Catch,  too,  the  savor  of  the  salt  sharp  waves. 


74^        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Fair  dreams,  but  vain.     Ah,  hark,  again  the  viols 
Rise  above  the  laughter  and  the  wine-mad  fray. 
Jove  leans  and  drains  his  revel-stained  wine-cup, 
Waves  me  to  his  side,  and  I  dare  not  stay. 

These  are  elaborately  chiseled  verses,"  Psyche 
commented,  when  she  finished  reading ;  "  there  is  in 
them  the  glow  of  something  which  is  of  the  imper- 
ishable substance  of  simple  and  quiet  moods  vi- 
brant with  memories.  If  an  association  must  be 
recollected  with  an  effort  it  has  lost  the  spirit  which 
creates  beauty.  In  it  there  is  no  element  of 
dream;  it  is  a  dead  thing,  to  be  scattered  with  the 
ashes  of  oblivion.  For  this  reason,  if  for  no  other, 
this  poem  is  more  beautiful  than  a  hundred  at- 
tempts of  incoherent  groping  after  life,  by  your 
modernist.  He  makes  you  see  life  in  its  ugliness, 
not  because  he  fails  to  see  it  truthfully,  and  even 
picturesquely,  but  because  it  is  not  graduated  into 
the  scale  of  chiaroscuro.  One  sees  this  arrange- 
ment all  about,  in  experience  and  observation,  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  circumstance  and  fact,  but 
your  modern  poet  of  the  extreme  type  throws  life 
altogether  in  a  flat  white  light  or  into  a  mass  of 
gloomy  shadows." 

"  Oh,  come  now.  Psyche,"  I  bantered ;  "  don't  be 
too  hard  on  Mr.  Kreymborg's  brood,  whom  you 
have  hit  below  the  belt.  I  admit,  to  change  the  fig- 
ure, that  all's  not  gold  that  glitters ;  but  good  steel 
and  even  iron,  has  its  practical  value.  Besides,  I 
am  not  willing  to  admit  there  is  no  gold  in  this  col- 
lection of  '  new  '  verse  —  though,  exactly  where  the 
'  newness  '   comes   in,   I   can't   see.     Have   any   of 


PEACOCK  PIE  75 

you,"  I  asked  my  companions,  "  read  that  article 
in  a  recent  number  of  The  Unpopular  Review,  on 
'What  Do  We  Mean  by  Poetry?'  written  by 
Arthur  Colton?  Well,  here,"  I  said,  pulling  out 
my  note-book,  "  is  an  extract  from  it  I  want  to 
read  to  you.  '  It  is  quite  time,'  says  the  author, 
'  that  the  jaded  subjectivity  of  the  last  generation 
is  disappearing  and  something  more  robust  seems 
to  be  coming  in;  the  tendency  does  seem  to  be 
toward  "  externality  "  and  more  or  less  colloquial 
language.  But  the  "  new  manner  "  makes  haste 
after  a  cant  of  its  own.  "  Seeking  colors  in  a 
dust  heap,"  no  more  than  yearning  after  "  noble 
thoughts  "  or  enjoying  a  pensive  melancholy,  will 
cure  a  weak  brother  of  his  futility.  Those  who 
find  most  satisfaction  in,  and  most  frequently  make 
use  of,  such  phrases  as  "  new  manner,"  "  free 
verse,"  "  modern  work,"  are  probably  of  no  great 
significance  in  the  drift  and  shifting  of  the  age, 
movements  that  have  little  enough  to  do  with  tech- 
nique. It  would  have  been  better  for  Wordsworth 
if  he  had  never  had  a  theory  of  simple  diction,  but 
merely  done  what  his  soul  bade  him  do.  There  was 
as  much  cant  in  his  theory  as  in  the  theory  of 
poetic  diction.  Neither  theory  had  any  value. 
There  was  a  real  movement  going  on  then,  and 
there  is  now;  but  it  was  not  then,  and  is  not  now, 
very  material  what  doctrines  anyone  held,  or  hold, 
about  diction.'  There,"  I  remarked,  closing  my 
book,  "  that  is  what  I  have  been  preaching  ever 
since  these  new  writers  have  invaded  the  peace  of 
mind,  and  disturbed  the  jjrejudices  and  conventions 


76        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

of  our  critics  and  readers.  It  is  as  final  an  utter- 
ance as  one  can  make  about  the  form  of  poetry. 
And  with  this  in  mind,  one  cannot  really  fail  to 
recognize  the  gold  in  Mr.  Kreymborg's  volume. 
There  is  not,  I'll  admit,  overmuch  of  it,  but  poets 
like  Mary  Aldis,  Walter  Conrad  Arensberg, 
Adelaide  Crapsey,  Hester  Sainsbury,  and  Wallace 
Stevens,  give  it  to  us." 

"  Let  us  consider  Hester  Sainsbury  as  one  of  the 
givers  of  gold,"  I  said,  "  and  this  very  beautiful 
poem,  '  Spring,  A  Ballet  to  Words  Danced  by  Five 
Dancers,  Three  Girls  and  Two  Children,'  which  I 
shall  read,  as  a  proof  of  it: 

"  Earth  like  a  butterfly 
Leaps  in  gold 
From  its  chrysalis  old 
And  stiff  and  cold. 
A  frail  pale  sky 

On  the  brink  of  dissolving  in  dreams 
Covers  the  year's  new  birth ; 
While  a  passionless  sun  spinning  beams 
To  recapture  the  heart  of  the  earth  — 
Half  daring,  half  shy. 
Looking  ready  to  die. 
Like  a  sigh, 

If  a  violent  wind  went  by  — 
Marries  earth  to  sky. 

"  The  grass  breaks  in  ripples  of  flowers. 
In  purple  and  chrome. 
As  a  sea  breaks  in  foam; 
And  the  lilacs  in  fountains  and  showers 
Of  emerald  rain,  fling 
Their  tiny  green  buds  on  tlie  wing  — 


PEACOCK  PIE  77 

Just  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  spring  — 

To  fly 

Bye  and  bye. 

To  burst  into  loveliness  airily  fair, 

In  garlands  for  dryads  to  weave  in  their  hair. 

In  a  virginal  dance 

With  a  scent  to  entrance 

The  sweet  fickle  air  — 

And  late  when  the  evening 

Comes  subtle  and  blue. 

And  stars  are  all  opening 

Hearts  of  bright  dew  — 

The  sun  will  slip  easily. 

Tenderly, 

Bright, 

Out  of  sight. 

More  silver  than  gold 

To  behold  — 

Not  as  in  summer  he  dies. 

When  low  in  the  West  he  lies 

In  the  sanguine  flood 

Of  his  own  heart's  blood, 

Shot  by  the  shaft  of  the  maiden  moon. 

With  regret  in  his  eyes 

That  the  amazon  comes  too  soon. 

"  And  my  little  son 
Has  run 
From  me 

To  the  flowery  hills  to  the  dappled  sea; 
For  somebody  told  him  that  shepherds  in  spring 
Taste  the  new  green  sap  of  the  old  green  trees. 
And  pluck  a  feather  from  the  wing 
Of  a  throstle 
While  they  sing. 


78        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

All  together. 

In  a  ring. 

And  toss  it  up  into  the  breeze; 

And  their  brains 

Go  mad  with  the  ecstasy  coursing  their  veins, 

And  they  wreathe  them  in  violets,  dance  them  in 

dew, 
Till  their  ankles  are  blue. 
Through  and  through 
Enchantingly  cold  with  sweet  pains  — 
While  the  sun  in  the  clouds 
Gold-dapples  the  sheep. 
Till  the  stars  in  bright  crowds 
Tempt  the  shepherds  to  sleep ; 
Who  with  eyes,  wild  dark. 
And  hair  like  a  flame, 
Singing  still  like  the  lark. 
Cry  loud  on  the  name 
Of  each  his  Corinna  to  come  and  be  tame 
To  his  love. 
Like  a  dove; 

"  And  their  sheep 
Turn  to  silver  —  and  sleep. 
And  my  little  boy 
With  his  young  spring  j  oy 
Will  not  discover  the  leanness  of  truth ; 
With  the  magical. 
Tragical, 

Credence  of  youth 
He  will  think  the  sane  shepherds  he  meets  on  his 

way 
Are  mad  to-morrow 
To  his  sorrow, 
Or  yesterday." 


PEACOCK  PIE  79 

"  Having  proved  that  there  are  true  and  beauti- 
ful poems  in  Mr.  Kreymborg's  anthology,  then  the 
burden  is  upon  you  to  prove  the  same  of  this 
'  Catholic  Anthology,'  Jason  put  to  me.  "  It 
needs  no  very  careful  guessing  that  Ezra  Pound, 
to  whom  Mr.  James  Stephens  addressed  a  scathing 
epistle  in  the  anger  of  his  Irish  heart  —  a  most 
humorous  epistle,  too  —  is  responsible  for  this 
collection." 

"  If  that  is  a  kind  of  challenge,  Jason,  I'll  con- 
fess my  defeat  immediately.  When  you  take  away 
the  value  which  the  work  of  Mr.  Masters  and  one 
or  two  others  give  the  book,  it  simply  invites  one  to 
censure.     And  that  I  will  proceed  to  do. 

"  In  the  first  place  let  me  quote  a  stanza  from 
Mr.  Yeats'  poem  which,  given  the  prominence  of 
italics  and  the  place  of  a  foreword,  must  be  taken 
as  the  standard  around  which  poetic  revolution- 
aires  rally : 

"  Bald  heads  forgetful  of  their  sins, 

Old,  learned,  respectable  bald  heads 

Edit  and  annotate  the  lines 

That  young  men,  tossing  on  their  beds, 

Rhymed  out  in  love's  despair 

To  flatter  beauty's  ignorant  ear. 

In  these  lines  one  can  discover  the  particular  creed 
of  this  poetic  Catholicism.  It  means  that  there 
are  no  '  bald-headed  '  minds  among  these  poets ;  of 
that,  one  must  be  assured,  and  be  equally  assured 
that  no  one  is  going  to  '  edit  and  annotate  '  their 
lines  (but,  good  Lord,  how  some  of  them  need  it !)  ; 


80        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

and,  again  be  assured,  that  it  takes  a  '  tossing  on 
their  beds  ' —  which  is  interpreted  to  mean,  that 
only  a  violent  nausea  produces  the  poetry  of  these 
young  men;  and  all  for  the  futile  flattering  of 
'  beauty's  ignorant  ear.'  Being  wiser  than  beauty, 
why  do  these  young  men  flatter  her?  It  is  not 
that  they  find  beauty  ignorant ;  they  find  her  deaf, 
because  she  will  not  tolerate  their  stupid  insincer- 
ities. 

"  Well,  their  first  insincerity,  is  in  calling  them- 
selves '  catholic'  To  be  catholic,  is  to  be  univer- 
sal, liberal,  broad-minded.  And  here  we  find  only 
those  poets  who  take  their  cue  from  Ezra  Pound. 
This  man  who,  from  the  safe  distance  of  Lon- 
don, calls  America  a  '  sink-pot,'  this  astute  ex- 
pounder of  cults  will  quote  somebody  or  other  of 
Provence  or  Endor  (circa  1313),  and  say  that  to 
be  catholic  is  to  be  neither  religious  nor  conven- 
tional, and  that  the  application  of  the  term,  to  a 
certain  group  of  obscure  modern  poets,  is  towards 
an  unrestricted  freedom  in  dealing  with  life.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  these  poets  do  not  deal  with  life ; 
they  deal  with  their  own  little  conception  of  it, 
and  as  they  imagine  it  in  the  tumbled  sheets  of  Mr. 
Yeats'  vision.  Their  next  insincerity  is  affecta- 
tion, displaying  moods  and  tempers,  through 
which  the  plain  surface  of  life  is  distorted  to  de- 
ceive the  reader  that  he  is  really  in  touch  with 
some  very  subtle  emotional  forces.  No  amount  of 
argument  for  art's  sake,  or  for  any  other  thing's 
sake,  can  alter  the  plain  truth  of  this.  Reason 
may  be  a  very  subtle  and  abstract  element,  and 


PEACOCK  PIE  81 

it  is  sometimes  very  difficult  to  trace  it  in  the 
most  beautiful  and  magical  of  expressions,  but 
somehow  it  will  convince  you  that  it  exists  and  is 
the  life  of  such  a  poem  as  '  Kubla  Khan,'  or 
Blake's  '  The  Tiger,' —  but  I  defy  anyone  to  detect 
a  semblance  of  it  in  any  one  of  the  quotations  I 
shall  read  from  this  anthology.  Listen  to  this 
from  Orrick  Johns : 

« 

"  Oh,  beautiful  mind, 
I  lost  it 

In  a  lot  of  frying  pans 
And  calendars  and  carpets 
And  beer  bottles  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  beautiful  mind ! 

Or  this,  from  William  Carlos  Williams : 

"  Even  in  the  time  when  as  yet 
I  had  no  certain  knowledge  of  her 
She  sprung  from  the  nest,  a  young  crow. 
Whose  first  flight  circled  the  forest. 
I  know  now  how  then  she  showed  me 
Her  mind,  reaching  out  to  the  horizon. 
She  close  above  the  tree  tops. 
I  saw  her  eyes  straining  at  the  new  distance 
And  as  the  woods  fell  from  her  flying 
Likewise  they  fell  from  me  as  I  followed  — 
So  that  I  guessed  all  that  I  must  put  from  me 
To  come  through  ready  for  the  high  courses. 
But  one  day,  crossing  the  ferry 
With  the  great  towers  of  Manhattan  before  me. 
Out  at  the  prow  with  the  sea  wind  blowing, 
I  had  been  wearying  many  questions 
Which  she  had  put  on  to  try  me: 


82        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

How  shall  I  be  a  mirror  to  this  modernity? 

When  Lo !  in  a  rush,  dragging 

A  blunt  boat  on  the  yielding  river  — 

Suddenly  I  saw  her !     And  she  waved  me 

From  the  white  wet  in  the  midst  of  her  playing ! 

She  cried  me,  '  Haia !     Here  I  am,  son ! 

See  how  strong  my  little  finger  is  ! 

Can  I  not  swim  well? 

I  can  fly,  too ! '     And  with  that  a  great  sea-gull 

Went  to  the  left,  vanishing  with  a  wild  cry  — 

But  in  my  mind  all  the  persons  of  godhead 

Followed  after. 

From  the  arch-priest  of  this  cult,  Ezra  Pound,  I'll 
recommend  that  you  re-read  the  poem  called 
'  Further  Instructions.' 

"Rather  pathetic,  isn't  it?  Where's  the  com- 
mon sense  in  all  this.?  This  eager,  pitiful  striv- 
ing after  effect;  this  cunning  attempt  to  attract 
with  bizarre  illusions ;  this  utter  disregard  for  all 
decency  of  thought  and  feeling.  I  have  no  fault 
to  find  with  the  form  a  poet  uses.  He  may  with 
deliberate  intention,  as  Mr.  Orrick  Johns  has, 
abandon  the  regular  metres  of  '  The  Sea  Lands,' 
an  early  lyric,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  the 
past  decade  can  show,  and  take  up  free  verse.  It 
is  what  he  makes  of  it  with  his  individual  power ; 
how  sane,  and  in  good  taste,  he  keeps  his  spirit. 
I  realize  that  all  along  the  line,  the  art  must  ad- 
vance; that  innovations  must  be  attempted,  and 
even  bold  and  daring  attitudes  be  taken.  But 
there  are  proprieties  in  art,  just  as  there  are  in 
life.     These  proprieties  may  conceal  other  than 


PEACOCK  PIE  83 

virtuous  qualities,  and  not  to  condemn  them,  may 
seem  hypocritical.  But  it  really  isn't;  it  is  tak- 
ing the  world  as  it  goes.  The  meaning  behind 
this  poetic  Catholicism  —  I  will  at  least  credit  it 
with  a  meaning  though  the  poets  do  not  live  up  to 
it  —  is  a  refusal  to  take  the  world  as  it  goes,  but 
as  it  happens  to  be  beneath  the  surface.  A  few 
poets  in  this  rather  curious  volume  seem  to  realize 
this  fact.  Alfred  Kreymborg  strikes  me  as  one 
worthy  of  genuine  admiration  and  respect.  I 
would  like  to  present  you  with  the  testimony  of  a 
poem  called  '  The  Next  Drink,'  which,  to  my  satis- 
faction, proves  it: 

"  It's  a  marvelous  age  we  live  in ! 
(It  is,  sir!) 
In   Greece,   they    fought   with   mere   javelins    and 

spears ! 
(Child's  play !) 

In  later  times, —  well,  what  of  Bonaparte? 
(Waterloo?) 

And  the  poor  pretty  handful  who  fell? 
(Tin  soldiers !) 

When  you  think  of  the  motors  and  aeroplanes 
(The  dreadnoughts!) 

And  the  million  of  men  in  the  field  at  one  time 
(A  million  dead!) 

The  seas  and  seas  of  bullets  and  blood  ! 
(And  the  gold!) 

Yes,  the  twenty-two  millions  a  day  that  it  costs ! 
(Vanderbilt's  fortune!) 
W^hy,  we're  right  to  be  proud,  sir,  and  happy  and 

gay ! 
(That  we  are !) 


84        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

It's  our  duty,  we  should  be,  we  should  be ! 

(We  should !) 

Come,  have  the  next  drink  on  me ! 

Well,  my  friends,  whatever  you  may  think,  to 
me  that's  commonsense  —  and  it's  poetry." 

"  And  you  pretend  to  find  commonsense  in  Imag- 
ism?  "  asked  Psyche. 

"  I've  had  a  pretty  long  say  about  the  Cathol- 
icism of  Ezra.  Pound  and  his  friends,"  I  answered, 
"  and  perhaps  Jason  may  prefer  to  take  up  your 
question." 

"  No,  no,"  Jason  quickly  voiced  his  refusal. 
"  I  desire  a  deeper  conviction  on  the  accomplish- 
ment of  Imagism  before  rhapsodizing  about  its 
merits.  You  have  surrendered  to  its  charms,"  he 
added,  charging  me  with  a  certain  popular  opin- 
ion, "  and  I  am  sure  Psyche  and  Cassandra,  as 
well  as  myself,  would  rather  you  make  clear  to  us 
the  aims  and  achievements  of  this  movement." 

"  If  you  can  stand  for  my  garrulity  I  don't 
object,"  I  responded.  "  But  first  you  must  under- 
stand that  I  have  not  surrendered  to  any  particu- 
lar school  of  poetry.  My  purpose  has  been  to 
recognize  good  poetry  wherever  I've  been  able  to 
find  it.  My  conception  —  nor  my  judgment,  for 
that  matter  —  of  poetry  may  not  be  acceptable 
to  every  one,  and  I  have  hardly  expected  that  it 
would.  No  man's  has  been.  This  is  because  the 
world  has  not  been  able  to  say,  this  is  poetry, 
as  it  says,  this  is  white  or  this  is  black.  The 
elements  of  poetry  are  like  the  fundamental  col- 
ors ;    emotion,    passion,    imagination,    are    those 


PEACOCK  PIE  85 

fundamentals.  Just  as  you  make  every  combina- 
tion of  shades  and  hues  from  the  fundamental 
colors,  so  is  every  combination  of  experience  made 
from  these  fundamental  qualities  of  human  nature. 
As  it  is  difficult  for  some  people  to  distinguish 
colors,  so  it  is  difficult  for  some  people  to  dis- 
tinguish real  poetry  in  the  confusion  of  substance 
and  form. 

"  I  don't  accept  mere  Imagism  as  poetry  any 
more  than  I  accept  mere  verse  as  poetry,"  I  con- 
tinued. "  But  the  Imagist  may  be  a  poet  in  the 
same  way  that  a  verse-maker  is  a  poet,  Imagism 
isn't  poetry,  nor  is  verse-making  poetry  — " 

Here  Jason  interrupted  me ;  he  could  not  re- 
strain from  retorting:  "But  is  Imagism  verse- 
making.''  This,  I  think,  is  the  objection  to  the 
whole  movement." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  the  fallacy  of  condemning  the 
movement,"  I  answered  his  last  sentence  first. 
"  The  next  fallacy  is  to  regard  verse-making  as  the 
whole  of  poetry.  My  answer  to  your  question, 
Jason,  is  that  Imagism  is  verse-making  as  much 
as  any  style  of  rhythmical  expression  within  a 
restricted  design." 

"  Why  a  restricted  design.?  "  Jason  threw  back 
at  me. 

"  All  expression  is  rhythmic.  An  unrestricted 
rhythm  is  a  prose  rhythm.  It  may  be  designed, 
but  the  specifications  are  for  a  public  building, —  a 
court-house  or  skyscraper,  not  for  a  private  resi- 
dence." 

"  Oh,  you  can  run  up  and  down  stairs  in  one, 


86        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

but  you  must  take  the  elevator  in  the  other,"  was 
Jason's  apt  contrast  of  stress  in  the  two  rhythms. 

"  Something   like    that    if    your    meaning   gets 
over,"  I  agreed. 

"  Well,  go  on,"  he  said ;  "  it  sounds  interesting, 
anyway." 

"  Take  the  matter  of  form,  then,"  I  continued. 
"  Isn't  the  whole  ridiculous  case  of  censure  ex- 
ploded in  this  paragraph,  which  I  shall  read  from 
the  anthology  of  this  group,  '  Some  Imagist  Poets : 
1916';  'The  vers  libristes,'  it  says,  'are  often 
accused  of  declaring  that  they  have  discovered  a 
new  thing.  Where  such  an  idea  started  it  is  im- 
possible to  say,  certainly  none  of  the  better  vers 
libristes  was  ever  guilty  of  so  ridiculous  a  state- 
ment. The  name  vers  libre  is  new,  the  thing,  most 
emphatically,  is  not.  Not  new  in  English  poetry, 
at  any  rate.  You  will  find  something  very  much 
like  it  in  Dryden's  "  Threnodia  Augustalis  " ;  a 
great  deal  of  Milton's  "  Samson  Agonistes "  is 
written  in  it ;  and  Matthew  Arnold's  "  Philomela  " 
is  a  shining  example  of  it.  Practically  all  of  Hen- 
ley's "  London  Voluntaries  "  are  written  in  it,  and 
(so  potent  are  names)  until  it  was  christened 
vers  libre,  no  one  thought  of  objecting  to  it.  But 
the  oldest  reference  to  vers  libre  is  to  be  found  in 
Chaucer's  "  House  of  Fame  "  where  the  Eagle  ad- 
dresses the  Poet  in  these  words: 

"  '  And  nevertheless  hast  set  thy  wyt 
Although  that  in  thy  heed  full  lyte  is 
To  make  bookes,  songes,  or  dytees 
In  rhyme  or  elles  in  cadence.' 


PEACOCK  PIE  87 

Commentators  have  wasted  reams  of  paper  in  an 
endeavor  to  determine  what  Chaucer  meant  by 
this.  But  is  it  not  possible  that  he  meant  a  verse 
based  upon  rhythm,  but  which  did  not  follow 
the  strict  metrical  prosody  of  his  usual  prac- 
tice?'" 

"  Your  Imagist  takes  a  little  too  much  for 
granted,"  Jason  interrupted.  "  May  not  Chaucer 
have  meant  by  the  line  '  In  Rhyme  or  elles  in 
cadence,' — in  assonance?  The  opposite  here  is 
'  rhyme,'  not  rhythm.  The  voice  falls  at  the  end 
of  a  line  upon  the  rhyme ;  cadence  indicates  this 
falling,  and  if  it  cannot  fall  upon  a  rhyme,  I  think 
Chaucer  meant,  upon  an  associated,  instead  of, 
exact  sound.  That  would  be  an  assonance.  Of 
course,  my  interpretation  may  be  taken  for  what 
it  is  worth ;  it  is  at  least,  as  reasonable  as  the 
Imagist's." 

"  I  don't  moan  to  defend  a  mis-interpretation, 
even  in  case  of  proof,"  I  answered  Jason.  "  But 
that's  beside  the  point.  Like  all  eager  enthusiasts, 
the  Imagists  made  mistakes.  Because  they  have 
is  no  reason  why  we  should  deny  their  claims  to 
fair  and  honest  criticism.  The  severest  weapon 
used  against  them  has  been  ridicule.  In  literature, 
and  especially  poetry,  this  weapon  kills  quicker 
than  any  other.  Yet  they  have  published  two  is- 
sues of  their  anthology.  And  they  have  been  very 
successful  volumes.  The  mistakes  they  made  in 
the  first  issue,  are  corrected  in  the  second.  They 
laid  a  little  too  much  stress  on  the  form  of  their 
art.     They  have  realized  that  substance  is  more 


88        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

important,  and  when  they  declare  that  poetry 
(and  how  often  must  it  be  said  before  it  is  under- 
stood?) is  'not  a  question  of  typography;  it  is 
not  even  a  question  of  rules  and  forms.  Poetry 
is  the  vision  in  man's  soul  which  he  translates  as 
best  he  can  with  the  means  at  his  disposal,'  we  find 
them  climbing  up  the  slopes  of  the  same  Parnassus 
all  other  poets  climb.  To  reach  at  the  top,  what? 
Why,  that  which  all  other  poets  strive  to  reach,  a 
'  vision  of  man's  soul.' 

"  So  the  six  poets,  Richard  Aldington,  H.  D., 
John  Gould  Fletcher,  F.  S.  Flint,  D.  H.  Lawrence, 
and  Amy  Lowell,  who  collaborate  in  producing  this 
standard  volume  of  the  Imagist  movement,  must 
be  judged  upon  their  precise  merits  as  poets.  Be- 
cause their  aims  are  in  common,  we  get  an  over- 
emphasis of  a  note  which  is  one  of  the  Imagist's 
cardinal  virtues.  This  is  a  kind  of  hardness.  In 
trying  to  escape  blurring  the  '  central  effect,'  by 
capturing  the  '  exact '  word  to  '  bring  the  effect 
of  the  object  before  the  reader,'  without  the  blend 
of  similes,  they  stiffen  the  substance  too  much. 
Thus  their  pride  is  in  being  definite.  This  leaves 
them  open  to  the  charge  of  being  without  emotion 
and  passion.  They  do  not  lack  either.  Emo- 
tion is  like  that  famous  cordial,  '  Southern  Com- 
fort,' which  must  be  iced  to  bring  out  its  best 
flavor,  and  passion  is  a  kind  of  hydraulics  — " 

"  Just  a  minute,"  Jason  stopped  me  with  his 
hand.  "  I  simply  want  to  say,"  he  explained  as  I 
gave  him  my   attention,   "  that   isn't   bad   about 


PEACOCK  PIE  89 

Imagist  emotion  being  like  iced  cordial,  but  pas- 
sion and  hydraulics,  isn't  that  a  bit  fetched?  I'll 
admit  their  verse  sound  like  hydraulics  to  me,  but 
of  all  modern  poets  their  passion  is  in  the  least 
state  of  fluidity  !  " 

"  It  is  the  nearest  I  could  come  to  an  analogy 
of  what  their  passion  was  like,"  I  confessed.  "  It 
has  terrific  power  and  drive,  with  the  source  of 
energy  all  nicely  out  of  reach.  But  we  must  not 
seek  in  these  poets  what  they  have  not  offered  to 
give  us.  Sentiment  of  the  common  variety  is  en- 
tirely eschewed.  Aldington,  Flint  and  Lawrence, 
as  Englishmen,  passing  through  the  storm  and 
stress  of  their  country  at  war,  possess  the  faintest 
tint  of  moral  uneasiness ;  but  the  three  Americans 
are  either  too  dead  or  too  alive  to  it,  to  have  their 
moods  tinctured.  Strange  enough,  though,  these 
three  American  poets,  as  well  as  their  English 
confreres,  are  imbued  with  a  note  of  meditation, 
a  note  singularly  absent  from  the  earlier  collection 
of  this  group.  With  H.  D.,  it  is  a  hard,  tonal 
exultation  in  nature ;  almost  a  pagan,  weird  natu- 
ral symbolism,  linked  with  an  over-awed  human 
submission.  In  the  '  Sea  Gods,'  this  poet  has  a 
quality  of  elusive  magic  that  is  entirely  individual. 
Let  me  read  the  poem: 

"  They  say  there  is  no  hope  — 
sand  —  drift  —  rocks  —  rubble  of  the  sea  — 
the  broken  hulk  of  a  ship, 
hung  with  shreds  of  rope, 
pallid  under  the  cracked  pitch. 


90        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  They  say  there  is  no  hope 
to  conj  ure  you  — 

no  whip  of  the  tongue  to  anger  you  — 
no  hate  of  words 
you  must  rise  to  refute. 

"  They  say  you  are  twisted  by  the  sea, 
you  are  cut  apart 
by  wave-break  upon  wave-break, 
that  you  are  misshapen  by  the  sharp  rocks, 
broken  by  the  rasp  and  after-rasp. 

"  That  you  are  cut,  torn,  mangled, 
torn  by  the  stress  and  beat, 
no  stronger  than  the  strips  of  sand 
along  your  ragged  beach. 

II 

"  But  we  bring  violets, 
great  masses  —  single,  sweet, 
wood-violets,  stream-violets, 
violets  from  a  wet  marsh. 

"  Violets  in  clumps  from  hills, 
tufts  with  earth  at  the  roots, 
violets  tugged  from  rocks, 
blue  violets,  moss,  cliff,  river-violets. 

"  Yellow  violets'  gold, 
burnt  with  a  rare  tint  — 
violets  like  red  ash 
among  tufts  of  grass, 

"  We  bring  deep-purple 
bird- foot  violets. 


PEACOCK  PIE  91 

We  bring  the  hyacinth-violet, 
sweet,  bare,  chill  to  the  touch  — 
and  violets  whiter  than  the  in-rush 
of  your  own  white  surf. 

Ill 

"  For  you  will  come, 
you  will  yet  haunt  men  in  ships, 
you  will  trail  across  the  fringe  of  strait 
and  circle  the  jagged  rocks. 

"  You  will  trail  across  the  rocks 
and  wash  them  with  your  salt, 
you  will  curl  between  sand-hills  — 
you  will  thunder  along  the  clifF  — 
break  —  retreat  —  get  fresh  strength  — 
gather  and  pour  weight  upon  the  beach. 

"  You  will  draw  back, 
and  the  ripple  on  the  sand-shelf 
will  be  witness  of  your  track. 

"  O  privet-white,  you  will  paint 
the  lintel  of  wet  sand  with  froth. 

You  will  bring  myrrh-bark 

and  drift  laurel-wood  from  hot  coasts. 

when  you  hurl  high  —  high  — 

we  will  answer  with  a  shout. 

"  For  you  will  come, 
you  will  come, 

you  will  answer  our  taut  hearts, 
you  will  break  the  lie  of  men's  thoughts, 
and  cherish  and  shelter  us. 


92        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Now,  in  Richard  Aldington,"  I  continued,  "  we 
have  also  a  poet  of  exceptionally  fine  perceptions. 
His  mind  dwells  in  two  worlds;  one  which  he  will 
not  escape  from,  the  other  from  which  he  cannot 
escape.  Two  strains  of  music  blend,  cross  and 
separate,  in  his  dreams.  '  Eros  and  Psyche '  is 
a  fine  example  of  this  mood.  But  here  is  a  little 
thing  of  Elizabethan  temper  that  is  perfectly 
lovely.     It  is  called  '  After  Two  Years  ' : 

"  She  is  all  so  slight 
And  tender  and  white 

As  a  May  morning. 
She  walks  without  hood 
At  dusk.     It  is  good 

To  hear  her  sing. 

"  It  is  God's  will 
That  I  shall  love  her  still 

As  He  loves  Mary. 
And  night  and  day 
I  will  go  forth  to  pray 
That  she  love  me. 

"  She  is  as  gold 
Lovely,  and  far  more  cold. 

Do  tliou  pray  with  me. 
For  if  I  win  grace 
To  kiss  twice  her  face 

God  has  done  well  to  me." 

"  Don't  spoil  the  effect  of  that,"  cried  Jason 
when  I  finished  reading.  "  I'll  try  to  look  at  these 
Imagists  with  your  eyes,  and  perhaps  come  to 
terms   with   what   they   have   attempted.     I   have 


PEACOCK  PIE  93 

done  my  duty,  as  I  presume  Psyche  and  Cassandra 
have,  in  carefully  reading  their  poems,  and  my 
tolerance  has  a  more  amiable  mood  after  your 
talk.  But  I  insist  this  frame  of  mind  depends, 
for  the  present,  upon  the  feeling  inspired  by  Mr. 
Aldington's  lovely  poem.  I  venture  to  speak  for 
Psyche  and  Cassandra,  too,"  Jason  solicited  their 
approval  with  a  glance.  "  Besides,"  he  added, 
"  here  is  this  '  Chicago  Anthology,'  which  deserves 
attention  before  that  shadow  I've  been  watching 
spreads  much  further  over  the  ground." 

Psyche  and  Cassandra  nodded  acquiescence. 
"  Oh,  very  well,"  I  consented ;  "  Miss  Lowell  and 
Mr.  Fletcher  we  shall  have  ample  opportunity  to 
discuss  at  some  other  time.  .  .  .  Will  you  intro- 
duce the  Chicagoans,  Jason.''  "  I  prompted. 

Before  Jason  could  respond  Cassandra  began  to 
read  "  The  Jew  to  Jesus  "  (a  poem  the  publisher 
forbids  me  to  report). 

Scarcely  had  the  echo  of  Cassandra's  voice  died 
among  the  branches  overhead,  when  Psyche's  voice 
with  thrilling  ecstasy  fell  upon  our  ears  with  these 
words : 

"  Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 
Shall  lord  it  but  a  day; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done, 
And  kept  the  humble  way. 

"  The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame^ 
The  dust  will  hide  the  crown ; 
Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 
Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 


94?        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 
Was  in  some  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet 
And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest." 

"  One  cannot  resist  such  a  cue,"  said  Jason,  "  so 
here  is  my  contribution,"  and  he  read: 

"  I  am  aware, 

As  I  go  commonly  sweeping  the  stair. 

Doing  my  part  of  the  every-day  care  — 

Human  and  simple  my  lot  and  my  share  — 
I  am  aware  of  a  marvelous  thing: 
Voices  that  murmur  and  ethers  that  ring 
In  the  far  stellar  spaces  where  cherubim  sing. 

I  am  aware  of  the  passion  that  pours 

Down  the  channels  of  fire  through  Infinity's  doors ; 
Forces  terrific,  with  melody  shod. 
Music  that  mates  with  the  pulses  of  God. 

I  am  aware  of  the  glory  that  runs 

From  the  core  of  myself  to  the  core  of  the  suns. 
Bound  to  the  stars  by  invisible  chains. 
Blaze  of  eternity  now  in  my  veins, 
Seeing  the  rush  of  ethereal  rains 

Here  in  the  midst  of  the  every-day  air  — 

I  am  aware. 

"  I  am  aware. 
As  I  sit  quietly  here  in  my  chair. 
Sewing  or  reading  or  braiding  my  hair  — 
Human  and  simple  my  lot  and  my  share  — 
I  am  aware  of  the  systems  that  swing 
Through  the  aisles  of  creation  on  heavenly  wing, 
I  am  aware  of  a  marvelous  thing; 
Trail  of  the  comets  in  furious  flight, 


PEACOCK  PIE  95 

Thunders  of  beauty  that  shatter  the  night. 
Terrible  triumph  of  pageants  that  march 
To  the  trumpets  of  time  through  Eternity's  arch. 

I  am  aware  of  the  splendor  that  ties 

All  the  things  of  the  earth  with  the  things  of  the 
skies. 
Here  in  my  body  the  heavenly  heat. 
Here  in  my  flesh  the  melodious  beat 
Of  the  planets  that  circle  Divinity's  feet. 

As  I  sit  silently  here  in  my  chair, 

I  am  aware." 

"  Florence  Kiper  Frank's  '  The  Jew  to  Jesus,' 
which  Cassandra  read,  '  The  Happiest  Heart,'  by 
John  Vance  Cheney,  which  Psyche  read,  and  An- 
gela Morgan's  '  Kinship,'  which  you  read,  Jason," 
I  enumerated,  "  are  all  very  beautiful  poems  which 
I  have  long  known  and  greatly  admired ;  any  an- 
thology which  contains  them  is  a  rich  book,  and 
shows  the  good  taste  and  judgment  of  its  editor." 

"  Mr.  Blanden  and  Miss  Mathison  have  per- 
formed an  excellent  task  in  this  Chicago  Anthol- 
ogy," said  Jason.  "  As  Mr.  Llewellyn  Jones  re- 
marks in  his  introduction, '  Its  compilers  have  done 
the  art  of  poetry  and  the  poets  of  Chicago  signal 
service  in  rescuing  this  representative  collection 
from  the  oblivion  that  would  have  befallen  some 
of  it  and  the  lack  of  general  appreciation  that 
would  have  befallen  the  best  of  it,'  a  sentiment  to 
which  we  must  all  subscribe.  New  York,  Boston, 
Philadelphia,  St.  Louis,  and  San  Francisco,  might 
well  follow  suit.  I  suppose  there  would  be  some 
difficulty  in  not  enlisting  the  servdces  of  several 


96       THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

poets  over  and  over  again,  unless  I  am  mistaken 
about  all  these  poets  not  being  Chicago-born.  If 
all  these  poets  were  born  in  Chicago,  then  the  city 
is  entitled  to  all  that  Miss  Monroe  claims  for  it  as 
the  poetic  centre  of  America.  But  I  doubt  that 
they  were,  which  after  all  makes  very  little  differ- 
ence, if  the  city  has  been,  as  Mr.  Jones  hints,  a 
vital  influence  in  their  lives. 

"  There  is  one  poet  in  Chicago  who  seems  to 
me  more  typical,"  Jason  continued,  "  of  the  West 
in  the  old  manner,  than  a  good  many  who  are  bet- 
ter known.  She  has  carried  over  something  from 
the  New  England  spirit,  which  I  can't  exactly 
describe.  But  her  verse  appeals  to  me  for  its 
homely  beauty  and  sincerity.  She  is  E.  Sewell 
Hill,  and  I  want  to  read  these  lines  on  '  Coming 
Home,'  with  their  full-flowing  rhythm : 

"  They  have  hauled  in  the  gang-plank ;  the  breast  line 

crawls  back; 
It  is  '  Port,  and  hard  over ! '  and  out  through  the 

black 
Of  the  storm  and  the  night,  and  across  to  the  mouth 
Of  the  harbor,  where  stretching  far  out  to  the  south. 
Run  the  lights  of  the  town. 

"  Swinging  slowly  we  turn, 
Pointing  out  for  mid-lake,  past  the  long  pier  where 

burn 
The    red    harbor-lights,    where    the    great    billows 

churn, 
Blow  on  blow,  on  the  spiles,  spilling  down  the  white 

foam  — 


PEACOCK  PIE  97 

But  I've  written  the  home-folks  that  I'm  coming 
home. 

"And  I'm  coming;  huddled  close  by  the  slow-falling 

rail, 
Blinking  red  through  the  mist  and  the  spray,  while 

the  hail 
Rattles  down  the  wet  decks,  lifting  high,  with  the 

wail 
Up  the  wind  of  the  fog-horn,  and  behind  on  our 

trail. 
And  we  nose  straight  out  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale, 
I  know  by  the  throb  that  the  engines  prevail. 
And  —  steady,  my  courage  —  unless  the  stars  fail. 
We'll  make  it. 

"  But  tell  me,  O  gray  eyes  and  blue, 

Did  you  know  in  your  watching,  O  dim  eyes  and 
true, 

In  that  black  night's  wild  fury,  while  the  storm-sig- 
nals flew, 

While  the  storm  beat  us  back,  and  the  hoarse  whis- 
tles blew  — 

Did  you  know,  O  my  dear  ones,  I  was  coming  to 
you? 

"The  silence  of  midnight;  the  hiss  of  the  swell; 
The  creaking  of  timbers;  the  close  cabin  smell; 
The  slow-swaying  shadows;  the  jar  of  the  screw; 
The  wind  at  the  shutter;  the  feet  of  the  crew; 
The  cry  of  a  child  —  is  he  coming  home,  too  ? 

"  There's  a  rent  in  the  night,  and  a  star  glimmers 
through. 


98        THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

The  skies  clear  above  us ;  the  west  banks  up  brown ; 
The  wind  dies  across  us ;  the  sea's  running  down ; 
And  across  the  dim  water,  still  breaking  in  foam, 
Stretches  out  the  far  shore-line  —  and  I'm  coming 
home. 

"  The  hills  smile  a  welcome,  the  long  night  is  pest, 
And  the  ship's  turning  into  the  harbor  at  last. 
The  engines  slow  down;  we  steal  through  the  slip. 
Past  the  low-burning  lamp  and  with  quivering  lip. 
Call  down  to  the  life-savers,  cheering  us  on. 

"  The  weary  throb  sends  us  straight  into  the  dawn. 
Fair  and  white  up  the  bay,  half  asleep,  all  adream. 
In  its  translucent  purple  and  pearl.     Just  a  gleam 
Out  there  of  the  earliest  sail ;  here  the  curl 
Of  the  first  lazy  smoke  from  a  cabin  —  a  girl 
Loops  up  the  long  vines  at  the  doorway.     A  swirl 
Of  white  water  behind  us;  then  a  stir  at  the  dock. 
Steam   slowly  !     The  head-line  —  the   stern-line  — 

the  shock 
As  we  swing  alongside,  and  across  the  plank  flock 
Wan  faces,  with  breath  still  a-quiver,  the  roar 
Of  the  night  still  above  and  about  them,  the  floor 
Still  uncertain ;  but  over  the  grateful  brown  loam 
We    crowd    to    the    shore-boat  —  and    I'm    coming 

home. 

"  And  away  to  the  north,  over  depths  of  cool  green 
From  the  bluiFs  overhead,  where  the  deep-set  ravine 
Digs  down  to  the  heart  of  the  wood,  while  a  stream 
Trickles  out  over  sands  drifting  white  and  the  pier 
Reaches  out  through  the  water  to  meet  us.  We're 
here ! 


PEACOCK  PIE  09 

"  From  the  pier  to  the  boat-house  and  far  down  the 

shore 
Flutters  back  to  the  group  at  the  old  farm-house 

door 
The  word  that  I'm  coming:  and  from  wrinkled  old 

hands. 
As  the  dear  old  feet  toil  through  the  weary  white 

sands, 
Bringing   welcome   and   welcome,    from   boat-house 

and  strand. 
The  hurrying,  white-winged  signals  all  come  — 
God  pity  the  mortal  who  has  never  come  home. 

"  And  I  ?     I'm  not  worth  it.     But  gray  eyes  and  blue  ! 
While  the  storms  beat  about  me,  O  dear  hearts  and 

true! 
Or  the  fogs  flinging  far,  blot  the  stars  from  the  blue. 
If  the  pole  star  leads  on  or  the  rudder  swings  true, 
It's  not  heaven  I'm  after  —  I'm  coming  to  you. 

"  But  heaven  it  will  be  when  down  the  blue  dome 
Flutter    out    the    white    signals    that    I'm    coming 
home." 

When  Jason  finished  reading  we  sat  silent  for 
awhile.  The  sun  was  still  high  in  the  west,  but 
the  screen  of  the  woods  made  all  about  us  dim 
with  shadows.  The  birds  overhead  in  the  leaves 
were  piping  soft  and  sweet ;  it  was  the  beginning 
of  vespers.  As  if  charmed,  we  listened  and 
dreamed.  Psyche  was  the  first  to  break  the  spell. 
She  arose  from  her  seat  on  the  ground.  "  What 
is  it  in  such  a  poem  as  that,  homely,  plain,  about 
an  ordinary  event,  which  makes  one  feel  a  deep  and 


100      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

satisfying  sense  of  poetry  ?  "  she  asked,  as  if  ex- 
pecting the  air  to  answer. 

"  It  is  something  we  all  come  back  to  from 
the  crocheting  of  art,"  Jason  volunteered  to  ex- 
plain. "  The  simple  human  quality  of  it.  Its 
lack  of  pretensions  of  any  kind;  its  common  im- 
pulse.    It  is  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Cheney's 

"  The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 
Was  in  so:i.e  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet 
And  left  to  heaven  the  rest  — '* 

he  said,  as  we  started  for  The  Farm. 


VI 

CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO. 

The  day  was  brilliant,  and  Jason  came  up  to 
The  Farm  with  an  air  of  assurance  about  him 
which  was  interesting  to  watch  as  he  swung  across 
the  fields.  I  had  arrived  earlier,  and  with  Psyche 
and  Cassandra  had  walked  down  to  the  river  be- 
hind The  Farm.  We  returned  in  time  to  see  Jason 
get  off  the  car.  Usually  he  moved  along  as  if  he 
expected  the  earth  to  stop  spinning,  and  if  that 
miraculous  disaster  were  to  happen,  he  wished  to 
break  the  shock  as  much  as  possible  by  the  re- 
siliency of  his  body.  "  It  could  do  nothing  more 
than  throw  me  flat  where  I  stood,"  he  used  to  say ; 
"  and  there  I  could  perish  comfortably  from  inani- 
tion. You  people  who  walk  with  a  stiff  spine  will 
not  only  have  your  spines  broken  but  will  be 
thrown  as  from  a  catapult  into  space  like  the  devil 
and  his  angels,  without  the  comfortable  assurance 
of  landing  into  the  sovereignty  of  another  hell." 
And  so  with  his  fine  figure  he  came  perilously  near 
to  shuffling  about.  Jason  was  an  extraordinary 
fellow  in  many  ways,  and  I  always  believed  that 
this  manner  was  simply  one  of  his  self-indulgences. 
Almost  any  time  I  anticipated  a  new  aspect  of  the 
man  as  startling  as  it  was  sudden.     And  here  he 

101 


102      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

was  beating  his  way  across  the  field,  swinging  his 
stick  with  the  vigor  and  glow  of  a  young  god.  We 
awaited  him  in  front  of  the  house;  as  he  crossed 
the  road  from  the  field,  I  began  to  read  in  a  loud 
voice,  these  lines, 

"  The  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 
With  firm  address  and  foreign  air. 
With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 
And  something  royal  in  his  walk. 
With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes. 
But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  surprise. 
Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited." 

"  A  fine  compliment,"  Jason  acknowledged,  with 
a  stately  bow  which  was  meant  for  a  greeting  as 
well.  "Robinson  could  describe  a  man,  eh?"  he 
added. 

"  Oh,  many  men  and  many  kinds,"  I  amended. 
"  But  come,  luncheon  is  ready,  and  dear  Mrs.  Dan 
has  a  prodigious  supply  of  delicious  gems." 

"  Yes,"  called  Mrs.  Dan  from  the  porch ;  "  and 
if  you  don't  come  quick  they  will  be  cold." 

So  we  went  in  to  lunch  still  quite  mystified  as  to 
the  cause  of  Jason's  new  aspect. 

It  was  when  we  entered  the  woods  an  hour  later 
that  the  secret  began  to  clear  up.  No  sooner  had 
we  got  under  the  leaves  than  Janson  pulled  a  small 
red  book  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  read.  And 
these  are  the  verses : 

"  Where  a  faint  light  shines  alone, 
Dwells  a  Demon  I  have  known. 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      103 

Most  of  you  had  better  say 

'  The  Dark  House,'  and  go  your  way. 

Do  not  wonder  if  I  stay. 

"  For  I  know  the  Demon's  e^'es, 
And  their  lure  that  never  dies. 
Banish  all  your  fond  alarms, 
For  I  know  the  foiling  charms 
Of  her  eyes  and  of  her  arms, 

"  And  I  know  that  in  one  room 
Burns  a  lamp  as  in  a  tomb ; 
And  I  see  the  shadow  glide. 
Back  and  forth,  of  one  denied 
Power  to  find  himself  outside. 

"  There  he  is  who  is  my  friend, 
Damned,  he  fancies,  to  the  end  — 
Vanquished,  ever  since  a  door 
Closed,  he  thought,  for  evermore 
On  the  life  that  was  before. 

"  And  the  friend  who  knows  Iiim  best 
Sees  him  as  he  sees  the  rest 
Who  are  striving  to  be  wise 
While  a  Demon's  arms  and  eyes 
Hold  them  as  a  web  would  flies. 

"  All  the  words  of  all  the  world. 
Aimed  together  and  then  hurled. 
Would  be  stiller  in  his  ears 
Than  a  closing  of  still  shears 
On  a  thread  made  out  of  years. 

"  But  there  lives  another  sound. 
More  compelling,  more  profound; 


104      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

There's  a  music,  so  it  seems. 
That  assuages  and  redeems, 
More  than  reason,  more  than  dreams. 

"  There's  a  music  yet  unheard 
By  the  creature  of  the  word. 
Though  it  matters  little  more 
Than  a  wave-wash  on  a  shore  — 
Till  a  Demon  shuts  a  door. 

"  So,  if  he  be  very  still 
With  his  Demon,  and  one  will. 
Murmurs  of  it  may  be  blown 
To  my  friend  who  is  alone 
In  a  room  that  I  have  known. 

"  After  that  from  everywhere 
Singing  life  will  find  him  there; 
Then  the  door  will  open  wide. 
And  my  friend,  again  outside, 
Will  be  living,  having  died." 

The  effect  of  Jason's  voice  was  indescribable  as 
he  let  these  words  fall  upon  the  air  as  we  sauntered 
among  the  trees  to  our  familiar  spot.  The  last 
line  with  lingering,  tragic  effect,  came  just  as  we 
stopped.  You  have  seen  a  proud  and  high- 
spirited  horse  throw  up  its  head,  in  the  exultation 
of  strength  and  speed?  I  got  such  an  image  of 
Jason  when  he  finished  reading.  But  I  had 
scarcely  completed  my  visualization,  when  the  man 
confounded  me  with  the  remark,  "  That  poem  has 
made  a  man  of  me." 

It  was  a  perfectly  silly  admission,  unless  there 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      105 

was  a  concealed  something  in  the  man  that  was  a 
menace  to  decency,  and  we  knew  him  too  well  to 
believe  any  such  thing.  We  all  live  in  a  "  dark 
house  "  at  some  time  or  other,  but  very  few  are 
haunted.  If  all  the  "  dark  houses "  of  human 
lives  were  haunted,  the  world  would  be  a  night- 
mare. Jason's  remark,  therefore,  was  inexplica- 
ble, until  he  explained :  "  I  have  had  little  time," 
he  said,  "  during  the  past  week  to  read  and  study 
the  poets  who  are  to  be  our  company  to-day. 
Mother  wired  me  urgently  to  go  down  to  Newport 
and.  see  her.  When  I  arrived  I  discovered  it  was 
a  serious  matter  which  threatened  to  damage  my 
future.  If  Byron  woke  up  of  a  morning  to  find 
himself  famous,  I  woke  up  to  find  myself  beating 
against  rocks.  For  the  rest  of  the  week  I  com- 
pletely forgot  about  the  poets.  Unable  to  stand 
it  any  longer,  yesterday  morning  I  came  up  to 
town  and  made  a  tour  of  all  the  ancient  burying 
grounds  in  Boston.  I  awoke  this  morning  out  of  a 
nasty  dream  —  which  served  me  right  for  trying  to 
memorize  all  the  inscriptions  on  the  antique  tombs 
in  Puritanic  Boston  —  and  found  myself  mutter- 
ing something  about  '  life  being  a  great  maze.' 
'  By  Jove,'  I  cried,  '  that's  the  title  of  Hagedorn's 
poem.'  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  read  the  book  be- 
fore breakfast.  After  which  I  had  a  bit  of  errand 
to  do,  which  made  me  late  for  the  train.  I  tackled 
Robinson's  book  in  the  station,  and  finished  it  on 
the  way  up.  With  the  week  I  had  passed  through 
dominating  every  nerve  in  me,  these  poems  of 
Robinson's    made    me    see    myself    as    the    '  man 


106      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

against  the  sky,'  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
we  are  in  this  world  to  do  business  for  the  little 
old  firm  of  '  Clotho,  Lachesis,  Atropos  &  Co.' 
But  you  can't  do  a  successful  business  with  life 
unless  you  have  a  sense  of  humor.  By  George,  it 
sets  a  man  up,"  Jason  concluded,  on  a  radiant  note 
of  conviction. 

*'  So  that's  the  moral  of  your  '  firm  address  ' 
and  *  foreign  air,'  of  your  appearing  as  one  by 
'  kings  accredited,'  "  Cassandra  exclaimed. 

I  gave  Cassandra  a  nod  of  approval.  "  Yes ; 
this  poet  has  taught  him  that  whatever  happens 
it  is  a  confession  of  weakness  to  be  afraid,  a  sign, 
in  truth,  of  defeat,  to  be  intimidated  by  whatever 
fate  imposes;  but  to  accept  it  with  a  sense  of 
humor  is  to  grow  strong  in  the  contention  which 
strives  to  overcome  the  circumstance.  I  remem- 
ber a  remark  this  poet  once  made  which  is  the 
armor  of  human  sanity.  '  You  will  be  surprised,' 
he  said,  'when  you  look  back,  on  the  number  of 
difficulties  you  get  through  without  knowing  how. 
They  seemed  unbearable  at  the  time,  but  your  only 
expense  proves  to  be  a  waste  of  energy  caused 
by  worry.'  The  point  of  his  philosophy  is,  ac- 
cept what  comes ;  if  you  go  down,  why  it  was  in- 
tended anyway,  and  to  go  down  with  a  brave  indif- 
ference is  to  triumph  spiritually;  if  the  thing 
passes,  why  you're  all  the  stronger  and  wiser  for 
the  experience.  Your  sense  of  humor  is  in  strictly 
conforming  to  this  doctrine." 

"  Why,  it's   the  gospel  of  fatalism,"   asserted 
Psyche. 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      107 

"  Yes ;  but  isn't  it  a  good  doctrine  for  the  pres- 
ervation of  human  sanity?"  asked  Jason.  "If 
we  will  properly  understand  Mr.  Robinson's 
poetry,  his  message  is  to  impress  this  fact  upon 
us.  In  the  remarkable  poem  '  The  Man  Against 
the  Sky,'  he  deals  with  it  in  a  lofty  manner.  Here 
is  shown  the  aspirations  of  humanity  to  achieve 
through  the  individual  its  high  destiny.  Unlike 
the  belief  of  many  of  his  critics,  the  poet  does  con- 
ceive a  high  destiny  for  mankind.  The  signifi- 
cance, however,  of  his  utterance  is  his  clear  per- 
ception of  the  processes  by  which  this  destiny 
works  in  man  for  good  or  evil.  He  gives  us  then, 
a  commentary  on  the  means  and  ideals,  the  checks 
and  limitations  of  traditions,  with  bold  reliance 
upon  the  prophetic  orientations  of  the  spirit.  We 
see  the  poet  emphasizing  that  central,  inevitable 
fact,  which  shadows  the  destiny  of  mankind.  Over 
and  over  again,  he  faces  this  inescapable  future, 
with  clear  and  unperturbed  recognition ;  and  in 
dissecting  the  experiences  of  human  life,  he  lifts 
the  appalling  oppressiveness  of  its  truth,  by  a 
cleansing  sense  of  humor.  So  when  he  sings,  in 
this  poem, 

"  And  when  the  primitive  old-fashioned  stars 
Came  out  again  to  shine  on  joys  and  wars 
More  primitive,  and  all  arrayed  for  doom, 
He  may  have  proved  a  world  a  sorry  thing 
In  his  imagining, 
And  life  a  lighted  highway  to  the  tomb  — 

he  can  also  speculate,  with  creditable  conviction, 


108      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"...  why  one  man  in  five 
Should  have  a  care  to  stay  alive. 

"What  does  your  shallow  mind  say  to  such  an 
assertion.'*  He  cries  pessimist,  fatalist,  and  so 
forth.  He  is  generally  the  fifth  man  who  wonders 
why  he  should  stand  the  knocks  of  this  '  unintelli- 
gible world.'  To  such  a  one  —  and  the  Lord 
knows  there  are  plenty,  as  the  poet  hints  —  Mr. 
Robinson  comes  with  a  reassuring  wisdom  and 
humor,  and  sings, 

"  Where  was  he  going,  this  man  against  the  sky  .'^ 

You  know  not,  nor  do  I. 

But  this  we  know,  if  we  know  anything: 

That  we  may  laugh  and  fight  and  sing 

And  of  our  transience  here  make  offering 

To  an  orient  Word  that  will  not  be  erased, 

Or,  save  in  incommunicable  gleams 

Too  permanent  for  dreams. 

Be  found  or  known. 

No  tonic  and  ambitious  irritant 

Of  increase  or  of  want 

Has  made  an  otherwise  insensate  waste 

Of  ages  overthrown 

A  ruthless,  veiled,  implacable  foretaste 

Of  other  ages  that  are  still  to  be 

Depleted  and  rewarded  variously 

Because  a  few,  by  fate's  economy, 

Shall  seem  to  move  the  world  the  way  it  goes ; 

No  soft  evangel  of  equality, 

Safe-cradled  in  a  communal  repose 

That  huddles  into  death  and  may  at  last 

Be  covered  well  with  equatorial  snows  — 

And  all  for  what,  the  devil  only  knows. 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      109 

Yes,  '  all  for  what,  the  devil  only  knows ! '     That's 
the  humor  of  the  situation. 

"  But  this  is  not  a  pessimist's  view,  nor  a 
cynic's,  nor  a  satiric's  view  of  life,"  Jason  con- 
tinued. "  It  is  a  fatalist's  only  so  far  as  one  seeks 
to  understand  the  forces  which  hold  and  exercise 
a  mysterious  influence  upon  the  brief  and  uncer- 
tain indentitv  of  human  life.  Mr.  Robinson  is  a 
poet  absolutely  alone  in  our  literature,  who  makes 
that  fact  a  starting  point  in  the  attainment  of  the 
wisdom  which  puts  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of 
humanity  at  his  disposal.  In  the  poem  '  Bokardo,' 
he  makes  this  point  more  explicit : 

"  God  knows  there  are  lives  enough, 

Crushed,  and  too  far  gone 
Longer  to  make  sermons  of, 

And  those  we  leave  alone. 
Others,  if  they  will,  may  rend 
The  worn  patience  of  a  friend 
Who,  though  smiling,  sees  the  end. 

With  nothing  done. 

"  But  your  fervor  to  be  free 

Fled  the  faith  it  scorned; 
Death  demands  a  decency 

Of  you,  and  you  are  warned. 
But  for  all  we  give  we  get 
Mostly  blows?     Don't  be  upset; 
You,  Bokardo,  are  not  yet 

Consumed  or  mourned. 

"  There'll  be  falling  into  view 
Much  to  rearrange ; 


110      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  there'll  be  a  time  for  you 

To  marvel  at  the  change. 
They  that  have  the  least  to  fear 
Question  hardest  what  is  here ; 
When  long-hidden  skies  are  clear. 

The  stars  look  strange. 

These  lines  apply  literally  to  the  poet's  own  atti- 
tude toward  life,  to  his  calm  and  settled  conviction 
that,  having  acknowledged,  fully  taken  into  ac- 
count, the  inevitable  end,  and  the  unknowableness 
of  what  follows  it,  is  to  get  rid  of  fear  and  to 
increase  one's  powers  in  questioning  and  solving 
the  riddles  of  this  world." 

"  It's  like  having  a  faith  in  something  you  don't 
understand,"  suggested  Psyche.  "  Comprehend- 
ing the  incomprehensible,  Mr.  Robinson  has  the 
knack  of  pelting  you  with  simple  words  and 
phrases  till  you're  dazed.  His  '  what  was  he,  and 
what  was  he  not,'  '  and  he  knows  neither  what  nor 
when,'  *  of  many  out  of  many  more,'  and  '  you  are 
one  of  us,'  these  severe,  naked  phrases  greet  you 
everywhere,  and  yet  in  their  context  they  have  a 
meaning  that  shines  with  significance.  I  alwa3'S 
feel  when  I  come  to  them  that  a  vista  has  opened : 
the  soul  of  Flammonde,  the  man  with  '  news  of  na- 
tions in  his  talk.'  " 

"That's  just  it,"  I  joined  in,  "a  vista  is 
opened,  but  it  is  not  always  likely  to  be  full  of  sun- 
shine. That  doesn't  matter  so  long  as  j^ou  see 
the  end;  the  important  thing  is  to  be  able  to  see 
through.  But  to  see  life  steadily,  and  see  it  whole 
is   only   a   partial   realization   of   Mr.   Robinson's 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      Ill 


powers  as  a  poet.  He  sees  it  transparently. 
That  fatalistic  note  which  many  professed  to  de- 
tect in  his  work,  that  inscrutable  and  inexplicable 
symbolism  which  baffles  by  its  simplicity  of  ex- 
pression rather  than  meaning,  is  really  nothing 
more  than  an  overwhelming  conviction  of  what  this 
life  presents  in  its  uncompromising  wholeness  and 
clarity.  The  irresistible  force  of  this  poet's  power 
to  bring  life  into  a  kind  of  realization  with  our  mis- 
conception of  it,  is  both  a  part  of  his  charm  and 
his  finality  of  vision.  Precisely  what  his  poetry 
does,  is  to  manifest  the  working  of  fate.  There  is 
a  magic  in  his  manner  of  doing  tliis  which  we  may 
credit  to  art,  to  the  very  conscious  structure  of 
his  language,  but  all  this  substance  would  crumble 
and  vanish,  if  something  more  eternal  did  not  give 
it  life.  The  living  vision  of  the  human  soul  is  the 
vision  whose  light  is  in  the  intellect.  Mr.  Robin- 
son's heart  is  full  of  mystery,  but  in  his  head  is  a 
passionate  wisdom  of  understanding.  His  poems 
are  absolutely  bare  of  illusion ;  intuition  goes  upon 
no  foraging  errands  for  his  moods  and  sympathies. 
What  his  heart  gathers  must  pass  through  the 
clearing-house  of  his  intellect." 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  Jason.     "  And  when  he  says  of 
Shakespeare, 

"  He  knows  how  much  of  what  men  paint  themselves 
Would  blister  in  the  light  of  what  they  are ; 
He  sees  how  much  of  what  was  great  now  shares 
An  eminence  transformed  and  ordinary; 
He  knows  too  much  of  what  the  world  has  hushed 
In  others,  to  be  loud  now  for  himself; 


112      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

He  knows  now  at  what  height  low  enemies 
May  reach  his  heart,  and  high  friends  let  him  fall; 
But  what  not  even  such  as  he  may  know 
Bedevils  him  the  worst:  his  lark  may  sing 
At  heaven's  gate  how  he  will,  and  for  as  long 
As  joy  may  listen;  but  he  sees  no  gate. 
Save  one  whereat  the  spent  clay  waits  a  little 
Before  the  churchyard  has  it,  and  the  worm  — 

he  shows  the  supremest  understanding  of  the 
world's  greatest  n.ind.  The  poem  from  which  I 
quote  these  lines,  '  Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a  Man 
from  Stratford,'  is  the  finest  utterance  on  Shake- 
speare. The  man  who  has  best  understood  the 
character  of  that  mind  which  most  encompassed 
human  nature,  we  must  crown  with  the  laurel  of 
genius." 

Psyche  had  been  sitting  with  her  book  open,  and 
I  suspected  she  had  a  selection  she  wanted  to  read. 
"  Have  you  something  of  Mr.  Robinson's  you  wish 
to  read  ?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  A  poem  which  I  think 
is  the  most  beautiful  in  this  book.  Its  magic  is 
haunting."  And  she  read  these  stanzas  called 
"  Fragment  " : 

"  Faint  white  pillars  that  seem  to  fade 
As  you  look  from  here  are  the  first  one  sees 
Of  his  house  where  it  hides  and  dies  in  a  shade 
Of  beeches  and  oaks  and  hickory  trees. 
Now  many  a  man,  given  woods  like  these, 
And  a  house  like  that,  and  the  Briony  gold, 
Would  have   said,   '  There  are   still   some   gods   to 

please. 
And  houses  are  built  without  hands,  we're  told.' 

I 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      113 

"  There  are  the  pillars,  and  all  gone  gray. 
Briony's  hair  went  white.     You  may  see 
Where  the  garden  was  if  you  come  this  way. 
That  sun-dial  scared  him,  he  said  to  me; 
'  Sooner  or  later  they  strike/  said  he, 
And  he  never  got  that  from  the  books  he  read. 
Others  are  flourishing,  worse  than  he. 
But  he  knew  too  much  for  the  life  he  led. 

"  And  who  knows  all  knows  everything 
That  a  patient  ghost  at  last  retrieves ; 
There's  more  to  be  known  of  his  harvesting 
When  Time  the  thresher  unbinds  the  sheaves ; 
And  there's  more  to  be  heard  than  a  wind  that 

grieves 
For  Briony  now  in  this  ageless  oak, 
Driving  the  first  of  its  withered  leaves 
Over  the  stones  where  the  fountain  broke. 

"  One  absorbs  that,  and  it  isn't  necessary  to 
say  just  what  one  absorbs  with  it,"  Psyche  com- 
mented, after  her  reading. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Psyche,"  I  agreed. 
"  The  thought  moves  me  to  a  generalization  which 
might  be  more  considered  to-day  than  it  is. 

"  Whoever  tries  to  make  us  think  that  Beauty 
has  lost  her  memory  for  old  things,  old  stories,  and 
old  traditions,  knows  her  only  through  acquaint- 
ance and  not  friendship.  Beauty,  like  Truth, 
cares  neither  for  time  nor  locality;  her  passion 
burns  as  intensely  in  luxury  as  in  poverty.  She 
has  no  age,  and  custom  takes  no  bloom  from  her 
eternal  youth.  If  beauty  could  see  what  we  some- 
times make  of  her  image  in  the  mirror  of  modern 


114      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

life,  she  would  hardly  recognize  the  countenance 
which  dreams  have  painted  as  her  living  form. 
And  where  she  might  have  hoped  to  look  and  find 
her  image  men  painted  centuries  ago,  she  will  find 
nothing  but  a  faded  canvas.  But  all  these  mis- 
representations do  not  disturb  her  spirit.  She 
knows  that,  since  there  are  false  gods,  there  also 
must  be  false  dreams.  The  grace  of  antiquity 
may  crumble  to  dust ;  the  glamor  of  remoteness 
be  as  a  dull  light ;  romance  swollen  to  inertia : 
from  which  the  desire  of  her  spirit  has  vanished. 
Our  world  of  to-day,  with  its  literalness  of  mood 
and  feature,  will  be  as  dead  as  they,  if  the  breath 
of  this  desire  and  spirit  is  not  breathed  into  them 
at  birth. 

"  Your  modernist  will  protest  that  the  gods  are 
dead.  Long  live  the  factory  and  democracy  they 
cry,  this  is  body  for  the  spirit  of  beauty  and 
truth.  But  the  gods  were  never  more  than  sym- 
bols and  oracles.  The  factory  and  democracy 
are  no  more  than  symbols  and  oracles  to-day. 
Behind  both  these  ancient  and  modern  temples, 
is  the  soul  of  man.  It  alone  makes  life,  and  only 
where  life  is  passionate,  does  the  mystery  of 
beauty  and  the  secret  of  truth  dwell.  The 
merchandize  of  Clotho,  Lachesis,  Atropos  &  Co. 
is  in  the  emporium  of  the  human  soul.  Some 
poets  are  ever  conscious  of  the  wares  bought  and 
sold  there.  Mr.  Robinson  is  one  of  these  poets 
who  knows  the  stock  through  and  through.  Mr. 
Hagedom  has  been  less  familiar  with  the  stocks 
of  destiny.     He  never  gave  us  the  impression  of 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      115 

unweaving  the  obscure  circumstances  of  life;  that 
is  why  we  are  all  the  more  surprised  at  the 
handling  of  such  a  theme  in  the  Homeric  substance 
of  '  The  Great  Maze.' 

"  The  spell  of  the  three  sisters  is  working  upon 
the  poet's  mind  in  the  creation  of  this  poem.  And 
beauty  testifies  to  the  truth  of  it.  It  is  not  merely 
because  Mr.  Hagedorn  tells  the  story  of  a  king 
and  queen  in  Argos,  two  thousand  and  more  years 
ago ;  of  an  episode  in  the  golden  and  supreme 
story  of  antiquity;  but  because  he  makes  that 
story  true  to  his  vision  of  fate.  He  has  the  kind 
of  wisdom  which  understands  human  nature  act- 
ing and  reacting  under  the  circumstances  in  which 
Agamemnon  and  Clytfemnestra  are  placed.  Does 
he  not  tell  us  how  Agamemnon,  returning  from 
Troy  after  his  ten  years'  absence,  which  his  wife 
was  made  to  believe  would  only  be  three  months, 
sat  watching  her  perplexed  face,  while  his 
eyes, 

"  Sought  Clytaemnestra's  but  his  gaze 
Stood  suppliant  in  vain  at  those  dark  doors. 
Once  he  had  entered  and  been  welcomed  there 
To  sunny  chambers  odorous  with  winds 
Murmuring  garden-magic  and  sea-lore 
Through  open  casements.     Dimly  he  recalled 
Lost  tricks  of  her  lost  girlhood,  April  moods 
Of  swanlike  queenliness  afloat  on  dreams. 
Deep  words  that  sank  in  sparkling  silences, 
And  evanescent  angers  and  sharp  thrusts, 
Cruel,  but  for  the  swift,  requiting  lips. 
All  that  was  dead  as  Troy. 


116      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  does  not  the  poet  also  tell  us  that,  for  all 
his  taking  of  cities  —  the  inexcusable  cause  to 
the  wife  of  the  husband's  ten  years'  absence  — 
Agamemnon  was  only  a  child  because  he  could 
not  know  life  as  Clytaemnestra  did?  She,  who 
brought  forth  Electra  in  his  absence  and  who  gave 
Iphigenia  for  the  sacrifice  at  Aulis!  The  cry  of 
this  queen's  heart  is  louder  than  all  the  noise  of 
the  sacking  of  Troy.  Troy  falling  in  ruins  fell 
to  silence.  The  agony  of  spirit  in  Clytaemnestra 
rises  from  the  ruins  of  time  with  louder  and  louder 
echoes.  Hear  the  poet's  voice  at  this  great  mo- 
ment : 

"  She  stared  at  him 
A  long,  slow  minute.     On  his  bearded  face 
The  light  of  stars  shone  faintly,  where  he  stood 
Erect  and  kingly,  looming  large  and  grand 
In  that  strange  ehildlikeness  her  arrows  sped 
Against  in  vain.      She  saw  each  fiery  shaft. 
Swift,  stern  and  straight,  fly  to  its  mortal  mark, 
And  marvelled,  seeing  how  it  struck,  and  lo. 
Sprang  back  and  fell,  made  impotent  by  some 
Unearthly  armor,  proof  against  her  skill. 
She  gazed  at  him  with  cool,   straight,  thoughtful 
gaze. 

'  If  only  you  were  bad  at  heart,'  she  said, 
'  I  might  find  words  to  make  your  soul  ashamed 
Of  the  bleak,  windy  ruin  you  have  made. 
But,  no.     You  are  not  bad.     You  are  a  child. 
You  play  your  games  and  break  so  many  things 
Unchidden,  that  at  last  when  you  destroy 
A  priceless  vase,  you  cannot  comprehend 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      117 

Why  there  are  tears  nor  wherein  lies  the  wrong. 

If  you  were  bad,  if  you  had  devious  ways. 

If  you  were  not  a  good  man,  with  clear  eyes, 

Seeing  one  road  and  that  road  white  and  straight; 

If  you  had  any  shadows  in  your  soul 

For  plots  to  brew  in  and  black  hates  be  born. 

You  might  suspect  that  in  this  world  all  ways 

Are  not  straight  ways  or  clear  ways,  and  that  souls 

Are  like  deep  woods,  dark  and  mysterious 

Even  at  noonday.     You  are  blind  to  men. 

Blind  to  their  powers,  their  feeblenesses,  blind 

To  the  ten  thousand  tricks  life  lightly  plays 

With  souls  and  with  events.     You  did  not  dream 

That  when  you  battered  Troy  and  burnt  its  towers 

There  was  another  city,  not  of  stone, 

That  shook  beneath  your  onslaughts.     It  withstood 

A  long,  long  while,  and  then  at  last  it  fell. 

The  wind  is  whistling  in  the  ruins  now. 

Crying  strange  things  you  cannot  understand.' 

Her  voice  was  steady,  cold  and  grave,  and  sad 

As  is  the  sea's,  when  it  is  most  serene. 

It  made  the  throat  of  Agamemnon  beat 

And   choked  the  words  that  struggled  like   strong 

men 
Entombed,  upward,  for  air  and  utterance, 
And  strove  in  vain.     But  Clytsemnestra  turned 
Moodily  toward  the  sea  her  calm,  dark  eyes, 
That  were  themselves  immeasurable  seas 
Peopled  with  exquisite  arrows  of  white  light 
And  terrors  tentacled ;  and  spoke  once  more. 
'  Because  you  are  not  bad  at  heart,  I  hope 
That  you  will  never  know  what  you  have  done 
To  me  and  to  my  life.     Good  night.     Go  now. 
Go,  Agamemnon ! '  " 


118      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  That  is  beautiful  poetry,"  exclaimed  Cas- 
sandra. 

Psyche  and  Jason  echoed  the  thought. 

"  Yes ;  but  how  its  beauty  would  fade  if  it  did 
not  clothe  the  substance  of  life.  This  the  poet 
gives  in  the  crux  of  fate  to  which  he  submits  the 
lives  of  this  king  and  queen.  Thus  the  poem 
moves  towards  catastrophe.  Agamemnon  is  con- 
vinced through  a  discovery,  not  long  after  his  re- 
turn from  Troy,  that  Clytaemnestra's  bitterness 
was  not  due  to  his  long  absence,  but  that  her  love 
for  ^^gisthus  had  made  his  return  undesirable. 
Electra's  prattling  in  the  garden  awakened  suspi- 
cion. But  Agamemnon's  love  for  Clytaemnestra 
was  so  great  that  he  was  willing  to  forgive  if  only 
he  could  win  her  back.  He  goes  to  her  room  late 
one  night,  crying, 

"  Where  are  you  hiding,  Clytaemnestra  ?     Speak. 
I  have  not  come  to  blame  you.     I  who  love  you. 
And  did  you  grievous  wrong,  how  should  I  blame 

you? 
Life  is  a  great  maze,  Clytaemnestra.     You 
And  I  were  lost  in  it  awhile.     But  look. 
Love  is  the  thread  of  it,  love  is  the  key. 
We  shall  not  walk  in  mazes  any  more. 
Speak  to  me !     Come  to  me ! 


and  she  answered. 


Agamemnon ! ' 


and 

She  staggered  toward  him  with  wide  arms. 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      119 

"  It  is  the  leading  out  of  this  '  great  maze  of 
life,'  by  following  the  '  thread  of  love,'  that  fate 
steps  in  and  makes  a  good  intention  a  sad  trag- 
edy. In  Agamemnon's  absence  bitterness  made 
Clytffimnestra  fancy  she  loved  ^gisthus ;  but  when 
her  husband  came  back  from  Troy  she  realized 
her  self-delusion:  in  every  quality  ^gisthus  was 
mean  in  comparison.  Mr.  Hagedorn  has  been 
charitable  with  Clytsemnestra's  character  and  pur- 
pose in  the  light  of  the  Homeric  conception.  He 
absolves  her  of  murdering  Agamemnon.  Refus- 
ing to  run  away  with  yEgisthus,  she  tells  him  the 
truth  about  her  feelings  for  him  in  these  lines : 

"  I  never  loved  you.     You  are  nothing  to  me. 
You  were  the  drug  to  make  my  sick  brain  cease 
Ravelling  and  unravelling  forever 
A  golden  yarn.     You  were  the  knife  I  chose 
To  cut  the  living  canker  from  my  heart. 
You  failed,  you  failed.     You  left  the  canker  there. 
You  were  not  even  a  good  tool,  iEgisthus." 


(( 


This  young  American  poet  takes  liberty  with 
Homer,  I  see,"  charged  Cassandra.  "  The  piti- 
less murderess  becomes  the  pitied  victim  of  her 
children's  misguided  revenge.  Should  we  like  this 
new  Clytfemnestra,  I  wonder?" 

"  I  do,"  Psyche  instantly  declared. 

"  Homer  has  had  his  day  with  her,"  Jason  ex- 
pressed his  view,  "  and  I  see  no  harm  in  Mr. 
Hagedorn  having  his  —  only  with  such  a  prede- 
cessor his  task  is  harder.  There  will  be  readers 
to  condemn  him  to  failure  without  the  benefit  of 


120      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

a  reading.  This  is  the  injustice  which  venera- 
tion for  the  dead  masters  of  art  impose  upon  the 
modern  writer  who  treat  old  stories  and  charac- 
ters from  a  new  point  of  view.  Mr.  Hagedorn  has 
made  his  Clytsemnestra  very  human  and  appeal- 
ing; and  his  conception  of  her  relations  to  Aga- 
memnon and  yEgisthus  convincingly  plausible." 

"  As  he  conceives  her,"  I  said,  "  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  her  to  murder  Agamemnon,  or  to  con- 
nive his  death  with  ^gisthus.  It  was  jealous 
rage  on  the  part  of  the  disappointed  lover  which 
drove  him  to  do  the  deed.  I  have  read  the  pas- 
sage where  Agamemnon  entered  Clytaemnestra's 
room  late  one  night  to  speak  his  forgiveness  and 
love.  It  was  also  the  time  and  place  when  ^gis- 
thus  urged  the  queen  to  fly  with  him,  eliciting 
from  her  that  scornful  denunciation  which  I  have 
also  quoted.  Fate  has  set  the  scene  for  the  trag- 
edy — '  One  room  enclosed  the  three  of  them  at 
last.'  Unable  to  resist  Agamemnon's  appeal,  the 
queen  '  staggered  toward  him  with  wide  arms  ' — 
but  let  the  poet  tell  what  happened : 

"  A  hand 
Thrust  her  aside,  a  thin  and  icy  hand 
Thrust  her  among  her  tables  and  her  chairs. 
Her  combs  and  broken  vases,  thrust  her  back. 
And  gave  the  breast  of  Agamemnon  not 
A  woman,  but  a  sword. 

"  He  cried,  he  reeled, 
He  fell,  thrashing,  he  rose,  he  fell.     The  sword 
Shook  itself  loose  and  on  the  marble  floor 
Fell  clattering.     He  fought  for  breath,  he  choked. 


CLOTHO,  LACHESIS,  ATROPOS  &  CO.      121 

Trying  to  speak,  and  then  reproachfully 

He    moaned    her    name,    and    then    '  Why  ?  '     And 

again, 
More  faintly,  '  Why  ?     Why  ?  '     On  his  breath,  the 

word 
Hung,  tremulously  fading.     When  it  died. 
He  went  with  it  into  the  windy  night. 

"  From  somewhere  in  the  world  there  came  a  cry, 
Then  steps  and  other  cries,  Electra's  voice. 
And  other  voices  out  of  every  day. 
Steps  hurrying! 

"  Across  the  littered  floor 
Blindly,  toward  where  he  lay  and  made  no  sound 
In  the  chill  blackness,  Clytaemnestra  drew 
Her  bruised  and  fainting  body,  reaching  out 
Quivering  fingers,  seeking  him,  and  crying, 
'  Where  are  you,  oh,  where  are  you  ?  '  in  low  tones, 
Inhuman  as  the  wind.     She  lost  her  way. 
And  fell  amid  the  shards  of  Tyrian  glass 
His  hand  had  scattered  there,  and  raised  herself 
And  struggled  on  with  bleeding  body  and  face. 
Groping  through  the  enormous  emptiness 
To  find  a  fallen  king.     She  found  a  sword ; 
And  then  she  found  his  hand  across  the  sword. 
His  open  eyes,  his  bleeding  breast,  his  feet. 
She  moaned,  and  kissed  his  feet  and  kissed  his  feet. 
iEgisthus  staggered  wildly  to  the  window 
And  tore  the  curtain  down.     The  moonlight  fell 
Whitely  on  Clytaemnestra  where  she  knelt. 
He  stared,  gasping,  '  Why?  —  Why?  —  Why ?  — '  " 

"Why?"    repeated    Psyche.     "Does    Clotho, 
Lachesis  or  Atropos  ever  answer.''  " 


122      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  No,"  Jason  replied.  *'  And  we  will  go  on  ask- 
ing them  to  the  end." 

"  No  one  can  doubt  that  Mr.  Hagedorn  has 
arrived  with  this  poem,"  I  observed,  as  we  pre- 
pared to  return  to  The  Farm.  "  It's  a  beautiful 
achievement." 


VII 

SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP 

"  The  lives  of  some  people  subsist  upon  un- 
tasted  delights  —  to  be  prosaic  I  ought  to  say, 
unrealized  hopes ;  but  that  wouldn't  be  exactly 
truthful  because  hopes  are  seldom  realized ;  it  is 
the  disillusion  that  becomes  a  fact.  Expectation 
is  the  most  nourishing  of  human  emotions ;  it  has 
the  form  of  desire,  and  instinct  is  its  substance. 
A  man  labors  and  sacrifices  all  a  life-time  to 
save  a  few  dollars  to  buy  a  useless  article,  and 
has  to  spend  the  money  for  some  vital  need;  a 
woman  will  want  a  jewel  or  a  house,  and  will 
have  the  money  to  obtain  both,  but  the  first  will 
not  be  of  the  right  design  nor  the  second  in  the 
right  locality  to  satisfy  her  desire  and  her  so- 
cial vanity, —  and  life  is  frustrated ;  and  so  on. 
Well,  you  know  about  Henry  James'  school- 
teacher and  Edgar  Lee  Masters'  village  cosmop- 
olite, who  dreamed  of  Europe.  Carcassonne  may 
be  any  old  place  or  any  old  thing  in  the  life 
of  a  man  or  woman,  and  the  expectation  of  it  is 
the  strength  upon  which  they  live.  '  I  am  looking 
forward  to  the  time,'  says  the  king  on  his  throne: 
'  I  am  looking  forward  to  the  time,'  says  the  beg- 
gar in  the  streets :  '  I  am  looking  forward  to  the 

123 


124      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

time,'  says  the  average  citizen ;  the  king  to  the 
time  of  sacking  a  rival  capital  or  adding  a  col- 
ony to  his  dominions,  the  beggar  to  the  time  when 
he  eats  a  square  meal  and  wears  a  silk  hat,  the 
average  citizen  to  the  time  when  he  has  saved 
enough  money  to  buy  a  little  pleasure  —  to  see  a 
bit  of  the  world  beyond  the  prison-house  of  his 
duties,  to  wear  a  few  decent  clothes,  and  own  a 
f ull- j  ewelled  watch  of  whose  ironic  warning  he 
takes  no  heed.  And  so  the  king,  the  beggar  and 
the  average  citizen  live  on  the  future.  The  king 
miles  successfully,  the  beggar  does  not  starve,  the 
average  citizen  supports  his  family  comfortably : 
each  in  his  sphere  doing  the  day's  work,  with  his 
hopes  upon  a  trifle  which  Time  dangles  before  his 
dreams ;  and  king,  beggar  and  average  citizen  go 
to  sleep  for  the  last  time  with  these  trifles  growing 
brighter  and  nearer  in  the  fading  gloom,  confident 
that  ...  in  the  dawn  they  will  seize  them." 

Jason  delivered  himself  of  these  thoughts  as 
we  walked  up  the  Derry  Road  in  the  shadow  of 
the  trees.  What  inspired  the  train  of  thoughts 
none  of  us  could  guess,  and  he  offered  no  explana- 
tion by  the  way  of  a  prelude.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished neither  of  the  girls  nor  myself  made  any 
comment.  There  were  still  some  steps  to  go  be- 
fore reaching  the  grove,  and  we  completed  the 
distance  in  silence.  By  the  time  we  were  com- 
fortably settled,  he  had  apparently  forgotten  the 
outburst.  He  picked  up  a  twig  and  playfully 
tossed  it  at  Cassandra,  and  laughed  when  it 
lodged  in  her  hair.     "  I  don't  know  why,"  he  said. 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         125 

"  the  simple  act  of  throwing  that  twig  reminded 
me  of  Lord  Dunsany's  tale  of  *  A  Legend  of 
Dawn.'  The  mind  has  queer  associations ;  it  is 
a  region  where  mysteries  come  up  from  remote  cor- 
ners of  emotions  and  cross  like  swift  meteors. 
But  that  instance  Inzana  came  to  view  radiant 
and  flushed  from  tossing  her  golden  ball.  I  have 
always  remembered  the  opening  of  that  legend: 
'  When  the  world  and  AI'  began  and  the  gods  were 
stern  and  old  They  saw  the  Beginning  from  under 
eyebrows  hoar  with  years,  all  but  Inzana,  Their 
Child,  who  played  with  the  golden  ball.  Inzana 
was  the  child  of  the  gods.  And  the  law  before 
the  Beginning  and  thereafter  was  that  all  should 
obey  the  gods,  yet  hither  and  thither  went  all 
Pegana's  gods  to  obey  the  Dawnchild  because  she 
loved  to  be  obeyed.  It  was  dark  all  over  the  world 
and  even  in  Pegana,  where  dwell  the  gods,  it  was 
dark  when  the  child  Inzana,  the  Dawn,  first  found 
her  golden  ball.  Then  running  down  the  stair- 
way of  the  gods  with  tripping  feet,  chalcedony, 
onyx,  chalcedony,  onyx,  step  by  step,  she  cast 
her  golden  ball  across  the  sky.  The  golden  ball 
went  bounding  up  the  sky,  and  the  Dawnchild 
with  her  flaring  hair  stood  laughing  upon  the 
stairway  of  the  gods,  and  it  was  day.  So  gleam- 
ing fields  below  saw  the  first  day  of  all  the  days 
that  the  gods  have  destined.  But  towards  eve- 
ning certain  mountains,  afar  and  aloof,  conspired 
together  to  stand  between  the  world  and  the 
golden  ball  and  to  wrap  their  crags  about  it  and 
to  shut  it  from  the  world,  and  all  the  world  was 


126      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

darkened  with  their  plot.  And  the  Dawnchild  up 
in  Pegana  cried  for  her  golden  ball.  Then  all 
the  gods  came  down  the  stairway  right  to  Pegana's 
gate  to  see  what  ailed  the  Dawnchild  and  to  ask 
her  why  she  cried.  Then  Inzana  said  that  her 
golden  ball  had  been  taken  away  and  hidden  by 
mountains  black  and  ugly,  far  away  from  Pegana, 
all  in  a  world  of  rocks  under  the  rim  of  the  sky, 
and  she  wanted  her  golden  ball  and  could  not  love 
the  dark.'  And  Lord  Dunsany  goes  on  to  say 
how  the  gods  found  the  golden  ball  for  Inzana ; 
but  she  in  her  perverse  childishness  kept  throw- 
ing the  ball  and  losing  it  behind  the  crags  of  the 
dark  mountains.  Every  time  this  happened  In- 
zana would  call  the  gods  and  say,  '  The  Night 
hath  seized  my  golden  ball,'  and  they  would  go 
in  search  of  it  again.  *  But  some  day,'  writes  the 
dreamer,  '  the  Night  shall  seize  the  golden  ball 
and  carry  it  away  and  drag  it  down  to  its  lair, 
and  Slid  shall  dive  from  the  Threshold  into  the 
sea  to  see  if  it  be  there,  and  coming  up  when  the 
fishermen  draw  their  nets  shall  find  it  not,  nor 
yet  discover  it  among  the  sails.  Limpang  Tung 
shall  seek  among  the  birds  and  shall  not  find  it 
when  the  cock  is  mute,  and  up  the  valleys  shall 
go  Unborodom  to  seek  among  the  crags.  And 
the  hound,  the  thunder,  shall  chase  the  Eclipse 
and  all  the  gods  go  seeking  with  Their  stars,  but 
never  find  the  ball.  And  men,  no  longer  having 
light  of  the  golden  ball,  shall  pray  to  the  gods  no 
more,  who,  having  no  worship,  shall  be  no  more 
the  gods.'  " 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         127 

"  I  have  never  read  your  Lord  Dunsany," 
Psyche  said,  "  but  it  is  certain  he  has  never  sold 
Aladdin's  lamp." 

Jason  sprang,  as  it  were,  to  the  phrase. 
"  That's  it,"  he  said,  "  selling  Aladdin's  lamp ! 
That's  what  some  of  these  modern  poets  are  do- 
ing." 

I  began  to  understand, —  and  I  think  both 
Psyche  and  Cassandra  accompanied  my  turn  of 
thought,  because  of  a  subtle  recognition  come  into 
their  faces, —  the  hidden  significance  of  Jason's 
talk  on  the  way  up  to  the  grove.  That  talk  was 
the  reflex  action  of  the  mind  on  the  poetry  of 
Mr.  Masters  and  Mr.  Aiken.  The  whole  thing 
was  quite  clear  to  me  now.  These  poets  had  sold 
Aladdin's  lamp. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  picking  up  the  thread 
of  suspended  thought,  "  it's  a  vastly  different 
thing  from  the  '  selling  your  birthright  for  a 
mess  of  pottage '  idea.  It's  different  for  many 
reasons.  Every  poet  has  a  birthright,  it  is  true, 
and  he  may  sell  it,  if  he  choose,  for  a  mess  of 
pottage,  but  it  is  a  poor  bargain  for  the  younger 
son.  Now  with  Aladdin's  lamp,  being  a  poet  is 
no  proof  of  possession.  It  comes  with  the  pack- 
age of  dreams  which  very  few  poets  receive  at 
birth  from  the  fairy-godmother  of  Wonder.  So 
when  the  poet  sells  his  lamp  the  fairy-godmother 
of  Wonder  grows  angry,  and  substitutes  for  it  the 
terrible  gift  of  disillusion." 

"  But  don't  poets  in  every  age  sell  their  Alad- 
din's lamp.?  "  asked  Cassandra. 


128      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  they  do,"  replied  Jason. 
"  But  the  fairy-godmother  of  Wonder  has  not,  ex- 
cept in  two  cases  that  I  recall,  been  so  hard  with 
her  punishment.  She  has  given  them  for  the  most 
part  only  an  excess  of  curiosity." 

"  Who  are  the  two  poets  you  recall?  "  Psyche 
asked. 

"  Crabbe  and  Beddoes,"  answered  Jason. 
"  And  Crabbe,"  he  went  on  to  explain,  "  is  the 
father  of  our  modern  disillusionists.  An  impor- 
tant essay  remains  to  be  written  on  the  influence 
of  George  Crabbe  on  contemporary  American 
poets.  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  was  the  first 
to  feel  his  influence;  he  wrote  a  sonnet  acknowl- 
edging his  admiration  for  the  author  of  '  The  Vil- 
lage Register,'  and  '  Tales  of  the  Hall.'  In  his 
sonnet  Mr.  Robinson  has  acknowledged  the 
debt  contemporary  poetry  owes  to  Crabbe.  Mr. 
Masefield  in  spite  of  his  obhgation  to  Chau- 
cer, owes  much  to  Crabbe;  and  in  Gibson,  Mas- 
ters, and  even  Frost,  the  poet's  influence  and 
manner  can  be  traced  though  it  is  unconscious  in 
the  last  three  poets  named." 

"  And  have  all  these  poets,  Mr.  Robinson  in- 
cluded, sold  their  Aladdin's  lamp  ?  "  asked  Psyche. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that  Mr.  Robinson  has,"  Jason 
answered,  "  nor  Masefield,  Gibson  and  Frost. 
And  I  am  of  this  opinion  because  these  poets  have 
had  no  illusion  about  hfe,  to  begin  Avith.  They 
developed  from  a  potential  recognition  of  facts, 
and  as  they  grew  in  experience,  they  became  less 
concerned  with  reality  than  with  the  eff^ort  to  coax 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP        129 

it  into  a  proper  and  rational  relation  with  human 
instincts.  Aladdin's  lamp  was  the  secret  of  their 
knowledge." 

"  Then  Mr.  Aiken  and  Mr.  Masters  are  the 
principal  tradesmen  of  imaginative  wares  .'^ "  I 
asked. 

"  They  seemed  so  to  me,"  replied  Jason,  "  be- 
cause they  have  deliberately  taken  their  imagina- 
tion, de-affinitized  it  of  mystery,  and  made  life  a 
solution  of  acids." 

"  What  a  thought !  "  exclaimed  Psyche. 

"  Well,  let  me  apply  a  simpler  definition," 
requested  Jason.  "  Watts-Dunton  said  that 
'  Poetry  is  apparent  pictures  of  unapparent  real- 
ities.' Now  here  you  find  these  two  poets  giving 
us  apparent  realities  in  unapparent  pictures." 

Psyche  confessed  she  didn't  quite  understand 
what  Jason  meant.  "  Unless,"  she  suggested, 
"  you  can  distinguish  between  the  thing  seen  and 
the  manner  of  the  poet  seeing  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  make  the  matter  clearer  by  giv- 
ing you  Arthur  Symons'  comment  on  Watts-Dun- 
ton's  definition,"  Jason  turned  a  light  on  the  diffi- 
culty. "  He  says,  '  Now  the  important  thing  is, 
not  that  there  should  be  realities  which  are  unap- 
parent, but  that  the  things  which  are  unapparent, 
of  which  the  poet  gives  apparent  pictures,  should  be 
realities.  To  the  great  imaginative  poet  they 
are ;  and  that,  not  his  "  wonder  "  at  them,  is  what 
matters.  There  is  much,  in  the  romantic  attitude, 
of  mere  wonder ;  but  what  in  Cyril  Tourneur  re- 
mains  wonder,   mere   angry   wonder,   becomes   in 


130      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Shakespeare  a  divine  certainty.  Imagination,  if 
there  is  any  such  thing,  is  sight,  not  wonder;  a 
thing  seen,  not  an  opening  of  the  eyes  to  see  it. 
The  great  poets,  the  great  visionaries,  have  al- 
ways seen  clearly ;  when  they  have  seen  furthest, 
as  with  Dante  when  he  saw  heaven  and  hell,  they 
have  seen  without  wonder.'  Now,  don't  you  un- 
derstand? "  Jason  asked.  "These  two  poets  are 
merely  in  the  act  of  opening  their  eyes  upon  life, 
and  upon  their  wonder  is  impressed  the  pictures 
that  are  seen.  The  somewhat  dazed  condition  of 
the  sight  does  not  see  clearly  nor  far ;  the  pictures 
instead  of  supplying  a  background,  crowd  up  and 
shut  out  the  realities.  The  danger  to  the  imagina- 
tion is  in  regarding  the  pictures  as  the  important 
facts.  While  truth  is  hidden  behind  the  form  of 
the  pictures.  And  it  cannot  be  reached  unless 
mystery  rends  those  forms  for  imagination  to 
flow  through  and  light  up  the  unapparent  real- 
ities." 

"  Oh,  I  begin  to  see,"  exclaimed  Psyche. 
"  And  when  you  say  that  these  poets  have  sold 
Aladdin's  lamp,  you  mean  they  dispense  with  mys- 
tery, which  they  believe  is  apt  to  falsify  truth  and 
fact.  So  their  purpose  is  to  open  their  eyes  upon 
life  and  paint  it  literally  in  a  mood  of  won- 
der." 

"  Doesn't  it  all  come  to  the  same  thing,"  I  sug- 
gested, "  when  Mr.  Firkins,  writing  about  Mr. 
Aiken's  '  Turns  and  Movies,'  says :  '  He  imag- 
ines   that    because    the    neighborhood    of    certain 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         131 

ideas  is  mighty,  their  presence  will  be  irresistible, 
whereas  in  these  matters  the  expert  knows  that 
arrival  is  less  potent  than  approach  '  ?  " 

"  *  Arrival  is  less  potent  than  approach,' " 
echoed  Cassandra.  "  The  mistake,  you  mean, 
that  Mr.  Aiken  and  Mr.  Masters  make  in  these 
books,  is  that  they  have  arrived  at  the  ultimate 
meaning  of  life  because  they  present  it  literally. 
The  potency,  or  I  would  rather  say,  the  mystery, 
is  all  squeezed  out.  But  you  really  can't  reach 
an  ultimate  meaning  of  life,  and  one  fails  more 
signally  in  the  attempt  by  the  mere  transcription 
of  facts.  The  trouble  is  not  that  anything  has 
been  reached,  but  that  the  poet  refuses  to  go 
further.  To  be  constantly  in  a  state  of  approach 
is  to  take  the  realities  for  granted,  and  invade 
the  regions  of  mystery  that  lie  hidden  behind 
them." 

"  When  Mr.  Aiken  published  his  first  volume, 
*  Earth  Triumphant,'  I  seemed  to  discover  in  the 
shorter  poems  of  that  volume,  a  certain  philosophy 
of  earth  which  appeared  to  me  the  poet's  strongest 
note.  There  was  an  abstract  something  towards 
which  he  was  groping,  which  no  other  present-day 
American  poet  had  conceived.  He  seemed,  as  I 
said  at  the  time,  to  have  a  share  of  that  subtle 
penetration  with  which  George  Meredith  un- 
ravelled the  trinitarian  spirit  of  nature  and  man's 
place  in  its  workings.  He  showed  in  such  lines 
as  these  from  '  Earth  Tedium,'  a  spiritual  doctrine 
of  very  great  poetic  importance: 


132      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  If  part  of  earth,  I  am  a  sullen  part, 
A  note  discordant  in  her  harmony; 
For  I  cry  out  against  her  ceaselessly. 
And  bear  a  separate  music  in  my  heart; 
Or  if  in  truth  my  soul  was  born  of  earth. 
Most  strange  that  being  her  offspring  I  should  hate 
Her  who  in  anguish  opened  wide  the  gate 
To  blinding  light  of  sun,  the  gate  of  birth ! 
Only  in  autumn  do  I  feel  with  her ; 
As  fall  her  leaves,  so  fall  the  leaves  in  me. 
In  borrowed  splendor,  dropping  wearily. 
Back  to  the  dust  wherefrom  she  bade  them  stir. 

Here  was  the  promise  of  something  that  lifted  one 
into  a  fine  symbolism.  And  I  have  no  reason,  in 
spite  of  the  later  tales  in  '  Turns  and  Movies,'  to 
change  my  mind  about  his  most  individual  and 
genuine  note. 

"  The  etchings  of  theatrical  life,"  I  continued, 
"  which  make  up  the  material  of  '  Turns  and 
Movies,' —  powerful,  incisive,  sordid  and  acid  as 
they  are  —  is  really  not  Mr.  Aiken's  metier.  The 
poems  have  a  kind  of  fascination,  it  is  true,  but 
it  is  the  fascination  of  literature  and  not  of  life. 
The  brutality,  the  vulgarisms,  are,  cunningh^  and 
even  subtly,  the  result  of  a  severe  concentration 
of  effort.  But  this  concentration  has  misled  the 
poet ;  the  vaudeville  stage  has  its  disillusions,  its 
sordid  side,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  not  a  world  solely 
of  sin  and  crime.  This  is  what  Mr.  Aiken  makes 
it.  His  types  of  men  and  women  are  repulsive. 
The}^  msLy  be  sharply  individualized  against  the 
background  he  imagines ;  the  delineations  would 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP        133 

be  remarkable  if  the  background  were  true,  but  it 
is  not.  Thus  '  Rose  and  Murray,'  '  The  Mc- 
Neils,' '  Gabriel  de  Ford,'  '  Violet  Moore  and  Bert 
Moore,'  and  '  The  Dancing  Adairs,'  are  to  a  great 
degree  falsified.  They  are  conceived  as  Balzac 
conceived  his  duchesses  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main. Here  is  one  '  Bain's  Cats  and  Rats,'  which 
I  shall  read : 

"  Quiet,  and  almost  bashful,  and  seldom  looking 
Into  the  rows  of  eyes  below  and  above, 
He  went  about  his  work  as  if  alone ; 
His  cats,  upon  their  table,  sat  and  yawned: 
Or,  paws  curled  under,  blinked  their  sleepy  eyes. 
And  one  by  one,  with  deft,  pale  hand,  he  lifted 
Rats  from  a  lidded  box,  and  set  each  one 
On  a  little  pedestal.     And  then  a  cat. 
Black,  with  green  insolent  eyes,  gravely  and  sleekly 
Stepped  over  them,  and  sniffed,  and  waved  his  tail. 
And  glared  at  the  spotlight  with  his  ears  laid  back. 
And   leapt   back   to   the   table.  .  .  .  The   audience 

laughed.  .  .  . 
Later,  when  one  cat  balked,  he  gave  up  weakly. 
And  let  the  curtain  fall,  with  scant  applause. 

"  Ten  years  before  this  he  had  lost  his  wife. 
He  was  a  trapeze  artist:  in  his  act. 
While  hanging  from  the  trapeze  by  his  legs. 
Lifted  the  girl  up  in  a  jeweled  girdle 
Clenched  in  his  teeth,  and  twirled  her  with  his  hands, 
In  darkness,  with  the  spotlight  blazing  on  them. 
It  was  a  love-match. —  Many  had  envied  them. 
But  he  was  always  queer,  a  moody  man. 
And  things  got  quickly  on  his  nerves.     The  girl. 


134?      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Perhaps,  had  been  too  young.  .  .  .  But  anyway, 
One  night  before  his  act  they  heard  him  scolding  — 

*  For  Christ's  sake,  put  less  powder  on  your  arms ! 
Look  at  my  clothes  —  look  here ! ' —  And  that  same 

night 
He  let  her  fall  —  or  anyway,  she  fell. 
And  died  without  a  word.     Soon  after  that 
He  quit  the  trapeze  work,  and  got  these  rats.  .  .  . 

"  Sometimes  there  on  the  stage,  he  heard  himself 
Saying,  until  the  words  grew  meaningless. 
Multiplying  themselves  in  tireless  rhythms, 

*  I'm  sick  of  her.     But  how  get  rid  of  her  ? 
Why  don't  I  let  her  fall  ?  —  She's  killing  me ! ' 
And  then  he'd  glance,  half-scared,  into  the  wings." 

"  Being  very  plausible,  the  thing  still  remains 
outside  the  consciousness  of  belief,"  commented 
Psyche. 

"  If  that  is  true,"  I  remarked,  "  what  would  you 
say  of  '  Zudora  ^?  Such  a  type  of  woman  is  true, 
but  I  don't  see  the  point  of  making  her  a  special 
ornament  of  the  vaudeville  stage.  Of  these 
sketches,  however,  I  believe  it  to  be  the  best." 
And  I  read: 

"  Here  on  the  pale  beach,  in  the  darkness ; 
With  the  full  moon  j  ust  to  rise ; 
They  sit  alone,  and  look  over  the  sea. 
Or  into  each  other's  eyes.  .  .  . 

"  She  pokes  her  parasol  into  the  sleepy  sand, 
Or  sifts  the  lazy  whiteness  through  her  hand. 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         135 

"  '  A  lovely  night/  he  says.     '  The  moon. 
Comes  up  for  you  and  me. 
Just  like  a  blind  old  spotlight  there. 
Fizzing  across  the  sea !  * 

"  She  pays  no  heed,  nor  even  turns  her  head: 
He  slides  his  arm  around  her  waist  instead. 

"  '  Why  don't  we  do  a  sketch  together  ?  — 
Those  songs  you  sing  are  swell. 
Where  did  you  get  them,  anyway.'' 
They  suit  you  awfully  well.' 

"  She  will  not  turn  to  him  —  will  not  resist. 
Impassive,  she  submits  to  being  kissed. 

"  '  My  husband  wrote  all  four  of  them. 
You  know, —  my  husband  drowned. 
He  was  always  sickly,  soon  depressed  .  .  .' 
But  still  she  hears  the  sound 

"  Of  a  stateroom  door  shut  hard,  and  footsteps  going 
Swiftly  and  steadily;  and  the  dark  sea  flowing. 

"  She  hears  the  cold  sea  flowing,  and  sees  his  eyes 
Hollow  with  disenchantment,  sick  surprise, — 

"  And  hate  of  her  whom  he  had  loved  too  well.  .  .  . 
She  lowers  her  eyes,  demurely  prods  a  shell. 

"  *  Yes.     We  might  do  an  act  together. 
That  would  be  very  nice.' 
He  kisses  her  passionately,  and  thinks 
She's  carnal,  but  cold  as  ice." 


1S6      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  What  do  I  think  of  that?  "  spoke  up  Jason. 
"  It  strikes  me  as  a  mere  tour  de  force.  I  don't 
say  that  such  a  couple  and  such  a  situation  isn't 
a  very  probable  bit  of  life,  but  the  writer  fails  to 
make  you  realize  its  livmgness,  if  I  may  say  so. 
It's  a  mere  statement  of  facts.  Now  poetry  goes 
beyond  that ;  it  translates  and  transfigures  facts. 
What  the  poet  should  have  done  in  this  case,  was 
to  make  you  feel  that  Zudora  was  '  carnal,  but  cold 
as  ice,'  without  saying  so  in  those  sparkless  words. 
A  little  rubbing  of  Aladdin's  lamp  would  have  done 
the  trick." 

"  Does  he  ever  turn  the  trick  in  this  volume.''  " 
I  asked. 

"  Pretty  nearly  in  '  Discordants  '  and  '  Disen- 
chantment,' and  completely,  I  should  say,  in  the 
'  Evensong,'  "  replied  Jason. 

"  I  don't  like  the  poet's  color  schemes,"  re- 
marked Psyche.  "  His  predilection  for  mauve  is 
morbid." 

"  One  can  excuse  that,"  I  said,  "  if  Mr.  Aiken 
didn't  resort  to  tricks  of  phrase  and  rhythm  in 
which  the  labor  of  construction  is  too  obvious. 
His  poems  show  too  often  a  lack  of  underbody 
of  thought  and  emotion  which  he  believes  can  be 
diverted  by  a  multitude  of  words  in  which  ecstasy 
is  assumed  rather  than  experienced.  He  is  too 
often,  I  might  say,  the  exclamatory  poet.  In  his 
narrative  poem,  '  The  Dance  of  Life,'  he  has 
ninety-two  exclamation  points,  and  addresses  God 
with  the  rhetorical  variants,  '  ah,'  '  good,'  '  thank,' 
and  '  by,'  eleven  times." 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         137 

"  Oh,  when  you  fall  into  arithmetic,  we  had  bet- 
ter pass  on  to  Mr.  Masters,"  Jason  reproved  us. 

"  What,  you  mean  that  Mr.  Masters  is  a  mathe- 
matical problem?  "  I  rejoined. 

"  The  economy  of  '  Spoon  River  Anthology ' 
might  warrant  one  in  thinking  so,"  Jason  re- 
turned ;  "  but  I  won't  go  so  far  as  that.  I  stop 
somewhere  between  Froebel  and  the  multiplication 
table." 

"  You  had  better  return  and  explain  what  you 
mean  by  the  '  economy  of  "  Spoon  River  Anthol- 
ogy," '  "  suggested  Cassandra. 

"  Oh,  that's  simple  enough,"  Jason  informed 
her.  "  In  that  book  Mr.  Masters  stripped  life 
to  the  skin  so  completely  that  to  comment  on  its 
reality  is  the  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  truth. 
You  see  he  saves  you  the  mental  cost  of  piercing 
illusion.  That's  something  gained.  With  the 
balance  of  emotional  energy  on  hand  you  can  ex- 
pend a  good  deal  more  of  mental  vigor  in  study- 
ing the  citizenry  of  Spoon  River.  Now,  here  is 
where  your  mathematics  comes  in,  if  you  will  con- 
sider truth  on  that  basis;  Mr.  Masters  impresses 
you  with  the  unit  of  life.  Spoon  River,  a  village  of 
humble  folk  is  the  unit  of  New  York,  London, 
Paris;  these  cities  are  only  the  multiplications  of 
Spoon  River,  when  you  get  right  down  to  the  pri- 
mal instincts  of  human  nature.  The  only  differ- 
ence is  the  scale  in  which  manifestation  is  pitched ; 
the  psychology  is  the  same." 

"  And  you  agree  with  Jason? "  Psyche  ad- 
dressed me. 


138      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  There  is  nothing  to  disagree  with  as  far  as 
Jason  goes,"  I  answered.  "  Mr.  Masters  is  demon- 
strable by  the  tape-measure  and  that  is  why  a 
good  portion  of  the  critical  refuse  to  regard  the 
work  in  the  '  Spoon  River  Anthology  '  as  poetry. 
But  that  book  presented  us  with  a  problem,"  I 
went  on,  "  that  had  not  hitherto  been  given  us  to 
solve  in  the  history  of  American  poetry.  Those 
of  us  who  accepted  its  realism,  its  very  poignant 
and  very  literal  transcription  of  life,  accepted  the 
poetry  which  made  the  verse  vivid  and  vital  in 
the  unusual  and  individual  manner  in  which  Mr. 
Masters  chose  to  express  himself.  It  could  not 
have  been  so  vivid  and  vital  if  poetry  in  its  most 
abstract  force  had  not  been  at  the  root  of  con- 
ception. The  strength  of  the  work  was  in  the 
power  which  Mr.  Masters  possessed  to  conceal  in 
his  substance,  just  as  life  conceals  in  the  indi- 
vidual, the  intangible  but  no  less  formal  quality 
of  poetic  form.  This  form  is  not  to  be  meas- 
ured by  the  standards  commonly  practised ;  but 
its  effects  were  as  definitely  realized,  because  the 
sum  of  them  registered  upon  the  reader's  mood 
and  emotion,  upon  his  sympathies  and  ideas,  those 
same  transforming  spells  which  imagery  and  magic 
must  work  if  formal  metre  in  regular  patterns, 
is  to  be  transmuted  from  leaden  verse  to  the  vivid 
energy  of  poetry.  He  could  not  have  won,  by 
teasing  or  coercion,  the  secrets  from  those  Spoon 
River  histories  if  the  key,  to  what  was  most  deeply 
human  and  tragic,  to  the  guarded  and  deceptive 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP        139 

experiences  in  the  individual  life  where  irony  mas- 
querades with  pathetic  simplicity,  and  the  satiric 
dalliance  of  the  gods  with  human  flesh  is  merci- 
lessly blind  —  was  not  a  kind  of  poetic  open 
sesame,  the  divination  of  a  poetic  instinct.  What 
he  revealed,  and  brought  forth,  would  have  wholly 
disintegrated  in  the  attempt,  if  there  had  not  been 
a  cohesive  quality  of  feeling  working  through  the 
substance,  shaping  and  coloring  it  through  accu- 
mulative waves  of  rhythm  and  cadence  to  the  pitch 
of  poetry.  The  distinction  of  poetry,  therefore, 
one  cannot  take  away  from  the  poems  of  the 
*  Spoon  River  Anthology.'  " 

"  But  isn't  it  true,"  asked  Jason,  "  that  the 
character  of  the  poems  in  the  '  Spoon  River  An- 
thology,' both  in  substance  and  form,  was  such 
that  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for  Mr.  Mas- 
ters' reputation  to  repeat?  It  was  only  by  the 
variety  of  his  little  humors  of  life  and  character 
that  his  book,  with  its  two  hundred-odd  histories 
of  condensed  transcript,  was  saved  from  a  possi- 
ble monotony.  Remarkable  as  the  achievement 
is,  fixed  as  it  apparently  seems  to  be  among  the 
small  number  of  permanent  contributions  which 
the  present  day  has  added  to  American  literature, 
we  needed  further  evidence  from  Mr.  Masters  that 
he  possessed  the  power,  the  substance  and  the  art, 
to  become  a  figure  rather  than  a  name  in  our  lit- 
erary history.  On  this  account  we  looked  eagerly 
to  the  appearance  of  a  new  book  from  him.  And 
it  is  really  through  this  new  book,  '  Songs  and  Sa- 


14?0      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

tires,'  that  his  position  becomes  critical,  that  he 
sustains  or  modifies  our  opinion  of  his  ability 
and  success." 

"  The  Masters  of  '  Songs  and  Satires '  will  not 
hold  our  attention  as  he  held  it  in  the  '  Spoon 
River  Anthology,'  "  Cassandra  gave  as  her  opin- 
ion. "  The  reason  is  obvious,"  she  amplified, 
"  though  it  must  not  be  counted  against  him,  be- 
cause it  is  largely,  in  fact  wholly,  the  difference 
between  reading  a  work  with  interrelated  interests, 
reacting  upon  each  other  as  in  a  novel,  and  a 
work  of  quite  independent  parts.  The  variety  of 
the  '  Spoon  River  Anthology  '  was  all  the  more 
emphasized  by  its  unity  of  setting  and  characters ; 
it  accumulated  a  great  number  of  sketches  into  a 
narrative.  The  poet  gave  his  critics  a  more  dif- 
ficult task  in  the  new  volume  because  they  have 
got  to  judge  him  —  why,  not  so  much  because  of 
his  various  moods  but  by  a  miscellany  of  un- 
threaded realities.  That  is  just  what  some  have 
professed  to  see  in  the  '  Spoon  River  Anthology.' 
But  this  point  of  view  failed  to  note  that  it  was 
the  underlying  narrative,  the  story  web,  which 
gave  to  the  '  Anthology '  its  initial  grip  upon  the 
imagination.  It  tells  a  history  in  which  events 
are  related  through  the  portraiture  of  human 
character.  The  latter  were  only  details,  but  they 
stood  out  so  life-like  and  convincing,  that  they 
gave  force  and  motion  and  dramatic  substance  to 
ihe  chronicle.  There  was  nothing  that  could  be 
eliminated,  no  poem  that  did  not  somehow  add  its 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP        141 

significant  phase  to  the  poet's  whole  scheme  of  life 
in  the  community  of  Spoon  River." 

"  But  the  poet's  materials  in  '  Songs  and  Sa- 
tires '  are  not  essentially  different  from  the  ma- 
terials of  the  '  Anthology,'  "  I  said.     "  If  we  re- 
gard a  certain  aspect  of  life  which  it  is  not  pleas- 
ant to  bring  to  the  gaze  of  the  market-place,  there 
is,  in  fact,  no  difference  between  the  best  poems 
in  the  '  Anthology  '  and  the  best  poems  in  '  Songs 
and  Satires.'     They  have  that  naked  reality  which 
we  associate  with  the  poet ;  desire  in  all  its  nudity ; 
no  reserve  in  treating  the  impulses  of  the  flesh ; 
the  cynical,  satiric,  ironic,  pathetic,  inexplicable 
paradox  of  soul  and  body.     This  whole  quivering 
undercurrent  of  life  is  treated  with  frankness,  but 
also    one    must    confess,    with    reverence,    with    a 
scrupulous  respect  for  truth,  and  without  offend- 
ing beauty.     Poems  like  '  In  the  Cage,'  '  Saving 
a     Woman ;    One    Phase,'    '  Arabel,'    '  Jim     and 
Arabel's  Sister,'  these  poems  in  which  Mr.  Mas- 
ters shows  his  supreme  power  in  this  book, —  well, 
what  are  they  but  the  poignant  essences  of  the 
flesh,  distilled  from  the  mystic  influence  of  sex  in 
human  life!     Yet  they  are  more  than  the  expres- 
sion of  a  mere  intoxication  of  voluptuous  passion ; 
there   are   gleams    of    real   vision   through   which 
we  are  permitted  to  see  clearly  beyond  the  actual 
experience.     You  may  not  like  the  subject,  but 
one  cannot  deny  that  such  a  poem  as  the  one  I 
shall  now  read,  called  '  In  the  Cage,'  is  not  both 
significant  and  beautiful : 


142      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  The  sounds  of  mid-night  trickle  into  the  roar 
Of  morning  over  the  water  growing  blue. 
At  ten  o'clock  the  August  sunbeams  pour 
A  blinding  flood  on  Michigan  Avenue. 

"  But  yet  the  half-drawn  shades  of  bottle  green 
Leave  the  recesses  of  the  room 
With  misty  auras  drawn  around  their  gloom 
Where  things  lie  undistinguished,  scarcely  seen. 

"  You,  standing  between  the  window  and  the  bed. 
Are  edged  with  rainbow  colors.     And  I  lie 
Drowsy  with  quizzical  half-open  eye 
Musing  upon  the  contour  of  your  head. 
Watching  you  comb  your  hair. 
Clothed  in  a  corset  waist  and  skirt  of  silk. 
Tied  with  white  braid  above  your  slender  hips, 
Which  reaches  to  your  knees  and  makes  your  bare 
And  delicate  legs  by  contrast  white  as  milk. 
And  as  you  toss  your  head  to  comb  its  tresses 
They  flash  upon  me  like  long  strips  of  sand 
Between  a  moonlit  sea,  pale  as  your  hand, 
And  a  red  sun  that  on  a  high  dune  stresses 
Its  sanguine  heat. 


'b'- 


"  And  then  at  times  your  lips. 
Protruding  half  unconscious,  half  in  scorn. 
Engage  my  eyes  while  looking  through  the  morn 
At  the  clear  oval  of  your  brow  brought  full 
Over  the  sovereign  largeness  of  your  eyes: 
Or  at  your  breasts  that  shake  not  as  you  pull 
The  comb  through  stubborn  tangles,  only  rise 
Scarcely  perceptible  with  breath  or  signs, 
Firm,  unmaternal,  like  a  young  Bacchante's, 
Or  at  your  nose  profoundly  dipped  like  Dante's, 
Over  your  chin  that  softly  melts  away. 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         143 

Now  you  seem  fully  under  my  heart's  sway. 
I  have  slipped  through  the  magic  of  your  mesh, 
Freed  once  again  and  strengthened  by  your  flesh. 
You  seem  a  weak  thing  for  a  strong  man's  play. 
Yet  I  know  now  that  we  shall  scarce  have  parted 
When  I  shall  think  of  you  half  heavy  hearted. 
I  know  our  partings.     You  will  faintly  smile 
And  look  at  me  with  eyes  that  have  no  guile. 
Or  have  too  much,  and  pass  into  the  sphere 
Where  you  keep  independent  life  meanwhile. 
How  do  you  live  without  me,  is  the  fear  ? 
You  do  not  lean  upon  me,  ask  my  love,  or  wonder 
Of  other  loves  I  may  have  hidden  under 
These  casual  renewals  of  our  love. 
And  if  I  loved  you  I  should  lie  in  flame. 
And  go  about  re-murmuring  your  name. 
And  these  are  things  a  man  should  be  above. 

And  as  I  lie  here  on  the  imminent  brink 

Of  soul's  surrender  into  your  soul's  power, 

And  in  the  white  light  of  the  morning  hour 

I  see  what  life  would  be  if  we  should  link 

Our  lives  together  in  a  marriage  pact: 

For  we  would  walk  along  a  boundless  tract 

Of  perfect  hell ;  but  your  disloyalty 

Would  be  of  spirit,  for  I  have  not  won. 

Mastered  and  bound  your  spirit  unto  me. 

And  if  you  had  a  lover  in  the  way 

I  have  you  it  would  not  by  half  betray 

My  love  as  does  your  vague  and  chainless  thought, 

Which  wanders,  soars  or  vanishes,  returns, 

Changes,  astonishes,  or  chills  or  burns. 

Is  unresisting,  plastic,  freely  wrought 

Under  my  hands  yet  to  no  unison 

Of  my  life  and  of  yours.     Upon  this  brink 


144      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

I  watch  you  now  and  think 

Of  all  that  has  been  preached,  or  sung,  or  spoken 

Of  woman's  tragedy  in  woman's  fall; 

And  all  the  pictures  of  a  woman  broken 

By  man's  superior  strength. 

"  And  there  you  stand 
Your  heart  and  life  as  firmly  in  command 
Of  your  resolve  as  mine  is,  knowing  all 
Of  man,  the  master,  and  his  power  to  harm. 
His  rulership  of  spheres  material. 
Bread,  customs,  rules  of  fair  repute  — 
What  are  they  all  against  your  slender  arm  ? 
Which  long  since  plucked  the  fruit 
Of  good  and  evil,  and  of  life  at  last. 
And  now  of  Life.     For  dancing  you  have  cast 
Veil  after  veil  of  ideals  or  pretense 
With  which  men  clothe  the  being  feminine 
To  satisfy  their  lordship  or  their  sense 
Of  ownership  and  hide  the  things  of  sin  — 
You  have  thrown  them  aside  veil  after  veil: 
And  there  you  stand  unarmored,  weirdly  frail, 
Yet  strong  as  nature,  making  comical 
The  poems  and  the  tales  of  woman's  fall.   .   .  . 
You  nod  your  head,  you  smile,  I  feel  the  air 
Made  by  the  closing  door.     I  lie  and  stare 
At  the  closed  door.     One,  two,  your  tufted  steps 
Die  on  the  velvet  of  the  outer  hall. 
You  have  escaped.     And  I  would  not  pursue. 
Though  we  are  but  caged  creatures,  I  and  you  — 
A  male  and  female  tiger  in  a  zoo. 
For  I  shall  wait  you.     Life  himself  will  track 
Your  wanderings  and  bring  you  back, 
And  shut  you  up  again  with  me  and  cage 
Our  love  and  hatred  and  our  silent  rage." 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         145 

"  That  is  a  remarkable  picture,"  said  Psyche ; 
"  but  I  suppose  for  most  of  us  the  moral  sense  re- 
fuses to  search  for  the  truth  in  it.  And  one  asks 
why  life  should  offer  this  particular  angle  to  one 
who  reads  so  clearly  the  script  of  our  mortal- 
ity." 

"  This  side  of  the  poet  has  overshadowed  an- 
other side  to  the  public.  The  quality  that  has  not 
been  fully  comprehended  in  the  poet  is  that  which 
is  contained  in  h's  poem  called  '  The  Star.'  You 
will  find  here  that  your  realist  is  in  spirit  a  pas- 
sionate idealist ;  who  sees  the  realities  because  the 
mysteries  of  this  complicated  existence  have  initi- 
ated his  soul  with  sympathetic  wonder."  And  I 
read  these  lines  from  the  poem : 

"  And  I  saw  mad  Frederick 
Arise  and  ascend  to  the  top  of  a  high  hill. 
And  I  saw  him  find  the  star 
Whose  image  he  had  seen  in  the  pool. 
Then  he  knelt  and  prayed: 
'  Give  me  to  understand,  O  Star, 
Your  inner  self,  your  eternal  spirit. 
That  I  may  have  you  and  not  images  of  you, 
So  that  I  may  know  what  has  driven  me  through  the 

world. 
And  may  cure  my  soul. 
For  I  know  you  are  Eternal  Love, 
And  I  can  never  escape  you. 
And  if  I  cannot  escape  you. 
Then  I  must  serve  you, 
And  if  I  must  serve  you, 
It  must  be  to  good  and  not  ill  — 
You  have  brought  me  from  the  forest  of  pools 


146      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  the  images  of  stars, 
Here  to  the  hill's  top. 
Where  now  do  I  go? 
And  what  shall  I  do  ?  '  " 

"  Understanding  that,"  I  went  on,  "  the  mean- 
ing and  drift  of  the  poem,  and  the  deep  message 
of  a  score  of  poems  in  this  volume,  will  announce 
itself  to  you  with  tremendous  force.  Poems  like 
*The  Vision,'  'So  We  Grew  Together,'  'The 
Loop,'  '  Simon  Surnamed  Peter,'  '  All  Life  in  a 
Life,'  '  The  City,'  '  The  Idiot,'  '  On  a  Bust,'  '  The 
Conversation,'  and  '  In  Michigan.'  The  fullness 
of  Mr.  Masters'  vision  is  only  realized  in  a  com- 
plete recognition  of  this  other  side  of  his  talents, 
the  side  which  applies  symbols  of  a  conservative 
faith  to  the  experiences  of  the  modern  world.  In 
the  poem  '  Simon  Surnamed  Peter  '  we  see  how 
thoroughly  this  old  substantial  faith  has  captured 
his  imagination,  is  a  part  of  his  tolerant  love  and 
acceptance  of  human  nature.  And  if  you  wish 
to  see  how  he  can  lash  that  faith  into  a  fury  of 
indictment,  there  is  the  poem  '  All  Life  in  a  Life,' 
depicting  the  social  vision  of  Christ  in  a  modern 
municipality.  And  of  course,  they  crucify  him 
all  over  again,  only  in  a  different  way.  There  is 
a  terrible  irony  about  it,  and  a  truth  as  pitiful 
as  indignant  hope  always  makes  it." 

"  All  that  is  true,"  exclaimed  Psyche,  "  but  let 
me  present  Mr.  Masters  in  a  mood  so  often  de- 
nied him.  He  has  a  lyrical  note  not  sufficiently 
commended,   and  I   want   to   read   these   stanzas 


SELLING  ALADDIN'S  LAMP         147 

*  For  a  Dance,'  to  show  his  excellent  gift  in  that 
mood.     Listen,"  and  she  read: 

"  There  is  in  the  dance 

The  joy  of  children  on  a  May  day  lawn. 
The  fragments  of  old  dreams  and  dead  romance 
Come  to  us  from  the  dancers  who  are  gone. 

"  What  strains  of  ancient  blood 

Move  quicker  to  the  music's  passionate  beat? 
I  see  the  gulls  fly  over  a  shadowy  flood 

And  Munster  fields  of  barley  and  of  wheat. 

"  And  I  see  sunny  France, 

And  the  vine's  tendrils  quivering  to  the  light, 
And  faces,  faces,  yearning  for  the  dance 
With  wistful  eyes  that  look  on  our  delight. 

"  They  live  through  us  again 

And  we  through  them,  who  wish  for  lips  and  eyes 
Wherewith  to  feel,  not  fancy,  the  old  pain 
Passed  with  reluctance  through  the  centuries 

"  To  us,  who  in  the  maze 

Of  dancing  and  hushed  music  woven  afresh 
Amid  the  shifting;  mirrors  of  hours  and  davs 
Know  not  our  spirit,  neither  know  our  flesh; 

"  Nor  what  ourselves  have  been, 

Through   the   long  way   that  brought  us   to   the 
dance: 
I  have  seen  a  little  hill  by  Camolin 

And  odorous  orchards  blooming  in  Provence. 

"  Two  listen  to  the  roar 

Of  waves  moon-smitten,  where  no  steps  intrude. 


148      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Who  knows  what  lips  were  kissed  at  Laracor? 

Or  who   it   was   that  walked  through   Burnham 
wood  ? 

"  There,"  said  Psyche,  when  she  finished  and 
we  rose  to  leave  the  grove,  "  the  wicked  magician 
of  modernity  was  killed  and  the  poet  rubbed  the 
wonderful  lamp  when  he  wrote  that." 

We  went  down  the  road  and  left  the  woods  at 
the  edge  of  The  Farm.  We  drank  in  the  beauty 
of  the  late  afternoon.  "The  fevers  of  life  are 
cooled  by  the  waters  of  peace,"  Psyche  mused,  as 
if  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  opened  up  vistas 
over  the  quiet  fields. 


VIII 

THE    IDOL-BREAKERS    (OTHER    PEOPLE'S) 

Or  all  the  persons  that  I  knew,  Psyche  had,  I 
believe,  the  fewest  prejudic3s,  and,  keen  as  she  was 
in  getting  at  the  very  essence  of  things,  she 
seemed  bewildered  by  some  of  our  modern  poets. 
She  was  in  this,  typical  of  a  great  number  of  peo- 
ple ;  many  who  did  not  have  her  excuse  for  not  lik- 
ing this  new  work ;  people  who  ranged  from  col- 
lege professors  through  critics  and  poets  them- 
selves, down  to  the  average  citizen.  It  was  a  clear 
case  of  prejudice  with  most;  with  a  few  a  mat- 
ter of  not  understanding.  Psyche  did  not  under- 
stand much  of  the  free  verse,  the  vers  lihre,  or 
modern  poetry,  whichever  one  chooses  to  call  it. 
She  merely  had  her  feelings  and  sympathies,  and 
preferred  to  keep  an  open  road  of  conviction  for 
each.  I  agreed  with  her  that  a  great  deal  of 
this  new  work  was  not  genuine.  The  test  of  what 
was  genuine  in  it  was  the  fact  that  the  poets  who 
were  genuine  would,  and  could,  make  the  same 
impression  on  critical  appreciation  if  they  wrote 
in  the  regular  forms.  It  was,  in  fact,  I  stated, 
only  those  poets  who  had  shown  their  command 
of  formal  metres  who  succeeded  in  proving  that 

vers  lihre  was  really  not  formless,  and  an  ade- 

149 


150      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

quate  medium  for  expressing  every  mood  of  life. 
What  I  had  quoted  from  Arthur  Colton's 
article  "  What  Do  We  Mean  By  Poetry?  "  in  the 
Unpopular  Review,  the  other  week,  had  made  its 
impression  upon  my  companions,  and  especially 
upon  Psyche,  who  became  more  tolerant  towards 
the  new  work.  I  had  also  explained  the  meaning- 
lessness  of  names,  by  calling  to  her  attention  the 
change  that  had  come  over  the  "  new  "  poetry, 
which  preceded  in  popularity  the  advent  of  the 
Imagists  and  the  later  radicalism  of  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg  and  his  associates. 

This  group  of  poets,  which  included  Mr.  Oppen- 
heim  and  Mr.  Untermeyer  as  the  chief  exponents 
of  the  "  social  conscience,"  was  as  violently  op- 
posed to  the  past  as  the  later  innovators,  yet  to- 
day, and  only  in  the  space  of  two  or  three  years, 
their  passion  for  newness  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion has  tamed  considerably  in  public  opinion. 
The  poets  themselves,  I  noted,  are  much  more 
important  merely  as  poets,  weavers  and  makers 
of  music  and  beauty,  and  the  future  promises  fine 
and  vital  things  from  them,  but  they  can  no 
more  startle  us  as  iconoclasts,  because  their  indi- 
vidual power  has  made  their  methods  perfectly 
rational  and  proper.  We  have  got  used  to  their 
philosophy  of  revolt,  which  has  certainly  stirred 
up  sympathies,  but  what  attracts  us  is  the  ritual 
of  art  by  which  it  is  conducted  while  the  doctrine 
becomes  an  appendage.  "  What  is  generally  mis- 
understood," I  said,  "  is  the  fact  that  if  is  not 
so  much  the  form  but  the  changing  views  of  life 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  151 

an.d  experience  which  have  brought  about  this  new 
phase  in  American  poetry.  Mr.  Untermeyer, 
when  he  so  passionately  preaches  the  gospel  of 
'  new  '  poetry,  doesn't  mean  the  art  at  all ;  he  is 
preaching  the  gospel  of  a  new  social  life.  So  is 
Edgar  Lee  Masters  a  new  democracy  through  his 
ironic  delineations  of  the  dead  inhabitants  of 
Spoon  River ;  Robert  Frost  gives  a  new  interpre- 
tation of  the  spirit  beneath  the  tragic  surfaces 
of  New  England  life ;  and  Amy  Lowell  shapes  new 
crystals  of  emotion  from  the  imaginative  life  of 
modern  civilization.  It  is  substance  that  counts 
in  each  and  every  one  of  these  poets,  and  it  is 
only  substance  that  will  keep  alive  the  form,  no 
matter  whether  it  is  the  conventional  rhythms  of 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  and  Amelia  Josephine 
Burr,  or  the  free,  unconventional  cadences  of 
James  Oppenheim  and  Alfred  Kreymborg." 

We  were  walking  up  the  Derry  Road  during 
this  conversation,  and  reached  our  turning-in 
path  just  as  I  finished.  There  we  stood  a  while  to 
admire  the  landscape  that  spread  below  us  in  the 
intervale.  "  I  know  every  figure  in  that  sweep 
of  landscape,"  exclaimed  Psyche,  with  affection  in 
her  voice,  and  as  if  the  sight  suggested  some 
vague  comparison  to  her  mind. 

"Full  of  images,  isn't  it?"  I  hazarded  an  un- 
derstanding of  her  thought. 

"  Yes ;  but  so  unified,  so  balanced,  in  their 
irregularity,"  she  half  consciously  murmured. 

"  What  do  you  mostly  gather  from  the  sense- 
impression   of   the   scene.?"   I   asked.     "You   see 


152      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

those  fields,  and  at  this  distance  you  know  the 
hay  is  being  mown,  and  though  you  are  too  far 
away  for  the  wind  to  bring  the  scent  of  new 
mown  hay,  still  you  can  smell  it.  A  kind  of  scent 
'  in  recollection ' ;  so  it  is  with  all  your  other 
senses  except  sight.  You  see  the  landscape  of 
the  intervale  stretched  before  you  for  miles,  and 
yet  you  know  all  its  life  intimately  by  the  re- 
sponse of  your  senses  to  memory  and  recollection. 
And  how  are  you  memorified,  if  I  may  use  the 
word ;  isn't  it  by  some  current  into  which  your 
mind  swings  by  associated  experience?  Yes,"  I 
pulled  myself  out  of  the  involutions  of  my  sugges- 
tions, "  the  cadence  of  that  scene  magnetizes  your 
spirit..  It  is  regular  and  orderly  in  spite  of  that 
view  being  but  a  succession  and  collection  of 
images  to  your  sight." 

Psyche,  who  had  apparently  been  dreaming 
over  her  beloved  intervale,  woke  up  with  a  kind 
of  start.  "  Oh,  you  mean,"  she  said  sharply,  al- 
most breathlessly  — "  that  —  is  that  what  this 
free  verse  means  ?  " 

"  Not  what  the  free  verse  means,"  I  corrected ; 
"  but  what  the  substance  of  free  verse,  or  any 
verse,  means.  Why  just  an  ether  of  suggestions 
and  meanings,  of  wonderful  and  beautiful  emo- 
tions, behind  the  haze  and  veil  of  sense.  Every 
sense  is  evocative  and  intuitional.  Mysticism  and 
wonder  are  the  vital  nerves  which  connect  the 
outer  world  of  reality  with  the  inner  world  of 
spirit.  Does  it  matter  how  the  substance  is 
shaped  so  long  as  it  is  given  a  being.'*  " 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  153 

She  turned  and  led  the  way  down  our  path,  and 
came  to  the  temple  pine  some  minutes  before  the 
rest  of  us.  When  we  came  up  to  her  and  found 
our  places,  she  informed  us  with  simple  convic- 
tion, "  I've  worked  it  out,  I  think ;  perhaps  my 
prejudice  has  stood  in  the  way.  It  seems  per- 
fectly natural  when  you  look  at  it  from  that  an- 
gle, but  I  think  these  poets  have  confused  the 
whole  matter  by  drawing  superfine  distinctions. 
I  can  take  no  stock  of  their  aims ;  I  must  simply 
be  satisfied  with  the  measure  of  their  beauty  and 
magic ;  of  the  degree  to  which,  with  experience 
they  increase,  the  solaces  and  enjoyment  of 
life." 

"  We  ask  no  more  nor  less  from  other  poets," 
Jason  remarked. 

"  Exactly,"  I  agreed.  "  And  accordingly  you 
have  found  Mr.  Arensberg  a  poet  of  exceptional 
attainments.  One  of  the  most  subtle  craftsmen 
in  American  poetry.  A  poet  with  a  mind  allur- 
ingly symbolic.  With  a  touch  of  prismatic 
irony.  Carving  and  polishing  ivory  and  jade; 
chiselling  marble,  sardonyx  and  beryl.  He  works 
with  a  cool,  undisturbed  severity  of  mood  on  one 
occasion,  and  on  another  with  a  hot,  passionate 
idealism.  He  can,  as  he  shows  in  his  rendering 
of  the  '  Fifth  Canto  '  of  '  The  Inferno,'  translate 
Dante  better  in  his  original  rhyme  and  metre  than 
any  American  living,  and  has  pierced  farther  into 
the  symbolism  of  Mallarme,  as  his  translation  of 
*  L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faune  '  proves." 

A  ripple  of  astonishment  passed  from  one  to  an- 


154      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

other  of  my  friends.     "  You  make  him  a  paragon 
of  poets,"  taunted  Cassandra. 

"  Something  of  a  master,"  exclaimed  Jason  in  a 
tone  of  doubt. 

"  Well,  he  is  an  artist,"  Psyche  timidly  as- 
sented.    "  And,"  she  added,  "  a  fine  thinker." 

Jason  hesitated  at  the  brink  of  an  opinion. 
With  a  certain  poem  of  the  poet's  in  mind  I 
strove  to  pull  him  back  from  the  chasm.  It  was 
mere  thoughtlessness  on  his  part  to  raise  the 
point  of  propriety  in  regard  to  "  The  Inner  Sig- 
nificance of  the  Statues  Seated  Outside  of  the 
Boston  Public  Library,"  a  poem  that  had  angered 
the  moral  conscience  of  New  England.  So  I 
leaped  to  the  mental  rescue  with  the  remark: 
"  Of  course  Mr.  Arensberg  is  an  idol-breaker. 
Like  Miss  Crapsey,  Mr.  Brown,  and  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg;  but  they  are  breaking  other  people's  idols. 
Nobody  finds  fault  with  you  when  you  break 
the  idols  you  have  set  up  yourself.  But  smash 
theirs  and  there  is  an  awful  row  about  irreverence 
and  apostasy." 

"  Then  you  mean  it  is  a  matter  of  choice,"  was 
Jason's  quick  response,  "  how  one  takes  the  title 
of  Mr.  Arensberg's  book?  He  gives  it  the  title 
of  '  Idols,'  but  does  it  mean  that  he  has  set  up  new 
poetic  idols  or  by  an  ironic  inversion  of  the  term, 
intends  for  you  to  understand  that  his  poems  are 
of  the  established  ones?  There  seems  to  be  some- 
thing subtly  mocking  about  his  use  of  the  word 
'  idols.'  " 

I  flattered  myself  that  I  had  succeeded  in  draw- 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  155 

ing  Jason's  mind  from  the  poem  which  he,  in  agree- 
ment with  many  others,  regarded  as  indecent.  But 
I  had  not  succeeded  as  well  as  I  thought,  for  his 
mind  came  back  to  it  with  unmistakable  clearness. 
Apparently  his  indigation  had  been  fully  aroused, 
sweeping  away  every  other  consideration.  But 
just  as  I  despaired  of  stemming  the  tide  of  his  de- 
nunciatory comment.  Psyche  unwittingly  came  to 
my  rescue.  The  question  of  idols  had  stirred  a 
parallel  current  of  speculation  in  her  mind,  and 
with  a  considerable  show  of  conviction  she  de- 
clared :  "  Law  alone  allows  us  freedom.  The 
more  freedom  one  possesses,  the  more  one  respects 
law.  We  do  not  break  laws  in  art,  we  break  their 
restraints,  and  establish  on  their  foundations 
higher  laws  towards  which  we  reach.  It's  an  un- 
alterable truth  in  life  as  well  as  in  art." 

It  was  a  parlous  stroke  of  which  my  friend  with 
his  outraged  sensibility  could  easily  have  taken  ad- 
vantage to  thrust  home  his  rebuke.  But  one  can- 
not always  determine  the  psychological  effect  of 
suggestion.  I  resigned  myself  to  the  inevitable; 
there  seemed  nothing  now  to  stop  Jason  from  scor- 
ing that  poem,  and  I  simply  prepared  to  cover  his 
retreat  as  safely  as  possible.  To  my  surprise 
Jason  broke  out  in  that  laugh  of  his,  so  spontane- 
ous and  hearty,  and  exclaimed,  "  What  a  little 
philosopher  you  suddenly  become  at  times. 
Psyche !  " 

Psyche  ignored  the  remark.  She  plunged  into 
a  quotation  from  Mr.  Arensberg's  book,  and 
read: 


156      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  I  have  a  memory  of  a  lonely  room.  •  .  . 
The  walls  of  it  were  as  a  garden  wall. 

0  gardens  of  the  world,  O  lost  perfume! 
Outside  the  world  I  read  the  Fleurs  du  Mai. 
Ah  me,  I  seemed  to  understand  it  all. 

Till  in  the  door  I  saw  I  know  not  whom. 

She  said:  '  What  are  the  flowers  that  you  let  fall?  ' 

She  seemed  to  say :  '  It's  I,  it's  I  who  bloom.' 

"  Was  I  at  last  afraid  to  be  alone? 
'  Who  are  you,  woman,  whom  I  have  not  known  ?  ' 

1  asked,  and  as  she  gazed:  '  Are  you  a  child?  ' 
Gravely  she  gave  her  lips  and  she  was  gone  .  .  . 
Gone  with  her  wistful  answer  which  she  smiled : 

'  I  am  the  deepest  valley  to  the  dawn.' 


5  )» 


"  He  calls  it  '  Au  Quatrieme ;  Rue  des  Ecoles 
she  said,  "  and  I  think  it  is  a  very  fine  piece  of 
work.  Notice  every  carven  phrase.  Mr.  Arens- 
berg's  finish  is  quite  remarkable,  isn't  it.''  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  and  doesn't  the  elaborately 
chiselled  beauty  of  this  song  remind  you  of 
Arthur  O'Shaughnessy.?  "  And  I  read  "Falling 
Asleep  " : 

"  O  the  dream  that  dandles. 
Sleepy  Head ! 

Lay  aside  your  sandals 
That  have  fed 
Down  a  night  of  candles 
By  the  bed. 

O  the  changing  pillow 
That  is  bare ! 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  157 

Be  a  weeping  willow 

With  your  hair 

Long  .  .  .  And  on  your  billow 

Lift  me  .  .  .  where? 

"  The  precise  turn  of  his  thought  in  the  many 
quatrains  has  the  neatness  and  force  of  Landor's 
cameo  verse,"  Cassandra  suggested.  "  These 
four  lines  '  To  a  Garden  in  April,'  is  a  rare  per- 
formance : 

"  Alas,  and  are  you  pleading  now  for  pardon? 
Spring  came  by  night  —  and  so  there  is  no  telling? 
Spring  had  his  way  with  you,  my  little  garden  .  .  . 
You  hide  in  leaf,  but  oh  !  your  buds  are  swelling." 

"  According  to  your  theory,"  said  Psyche, 
"  Mr.  Arensberg  is  able  to  produce  that  superb 
poem,  '  Voyage  a  L'Infini,'  in  the  free  manner  be- 
cause he  is  so  perfect  a  metricist  in  these  other 
poems." 

"  Yes ;  and  could  anything  be  more  so  in  the 
age-tried  forms  than  in  the  two  translations  in 
'Idols'.''  I  asked.  The  rendering  of  Mallarme's 
'  L'Apres-midi  d'un  Faune,'  to  which,  by  the  way, 
Mr.  Arensberg  has  wisely  and  lucidly  added  a 
commentary  in  an  appendix,  and  the  exact  ren- 
dering in  metre  and  rhyme  of  Dante's  '  Fifth 
Canto,'  from  '  The  Inferno,'  attest  all  the  more 
that  if  our  poets  are  to  go  innovating  in  free 
forms,  they  must  do  so,  to  be  successful  and  im- 
pressive, with  an  experienced  accomplishment  in 
the  traditional  and  patterned  laws  of  regular 
verse." 


158      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Somehow  I  cannot  place  Miss  Crapsey  in  that 
category,"  said  Jason.  "  There  is  no  question 
of  her  being  an  idol-breaker  too;  and  though  she 
has  originated  a  new  form  she  is  less  conscious 
of  form  than  intensely  conscious  of  substance." 
Jason's  enthusiasm  for  Adelaide  Crapsey's  po- 
etry, which  I  shared  fully,  Cassandra  sympathised 
with,  and  Psyche  accepted,  won  for  him  an  unin- 
terrupted flow  of  speech.  .  "  We  are  going  to  sub- 
mit entirely  to  your  presentation  of  Miss  Crap- 
sey's claims,"  I  laughingly  urged  Jason  on.  "  I 
am  sure  Psyche  and  Cassandra  are  both  in  a 
listening  mood." 

"  Well,  I  have  been  very  much  moved  by  this 
poet,"  Jason  replied  in  accepting  my  challenge. 
"  I  won't  deny  that  her  personal  history  has  had 
an  influence.  She  has  been  haloed  with  tragedy; 
spiritual  tragedy,  in  which  the  indomitable  con- 
flict of  will  rose  triumphantly  over  the  betraying 
flesh.  She  wrote  verse  with  the  economy  of  speech 
and  the  prodigality  of  spirit ;  verse  that  wears  its 
own  habit  of  adornment,  and  having  its  own 
miraculous  visions  of  life ;  this  is  the  kind  of  verse 
Adelaide  Crapsey  has  left  us.  There  is  a  kind 
of  wonder  shining  in  the  pages  of  her  little  volume ; 
something  too  bright  to  be  earthly,  something  too 
strong  to  be  mortal.  It  is  just  this  particular 
mystery, —  that  the  *  touch  of  life  '  is  turned  to 
such  golden  purposes  for  all  the  menacing  that 
the  *  despot  of  our  days,  the  lord  of  dust,'  lays 
upon  it.  To  be  sentenced  by  this  lord  and  despot, 
in  the  fulness  of  youth,  makes  the  spirit  cringe  in 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  159 

most  of  us.  It  aroused  a  scrupulous  spiritual 
defiance  in  Adelaide  Crapsey,  and  affixed  her  na- 
ture like  a  seal  on  the  document  of  existence : 

"  Wouldst  thou  find  my  ashes  ?     Look 
In  the  pages  of  my  book ; 
And,  as  these  thy  hand  doth  turn, 
Know  here  is  my  funeral  urn. 

She  set  this  verse  down,  in  one  of  those  more  con- 
trollable moods,  perhaps,  as  she  looked  out  in 
her  exile  upon  '  Trudeau's  Garden,'  as  '  The  Im- 
mortal Residue '  of  these  earthly  years.  It  con- 
tains more,  this  book,  which  is  her  '  funeral  urn,' 
wrote  Mr.  Bragdon,  in  his  biographical  preface; 
it  holds  the  '  ashes  of  a  personal  passion,'  it  con- 
tains '  infinite  passion,  and  the  pain  of  finite  hearts 
that  yearn.' 

"  The  memory  of  Adelaide  Crapsey,"  Jason 
continued,  "  will  grow  famous  like  the  memor}^  of 
Emily  Dickinson,  whom  she  resembles  in  the  brev- 
ity, compact  imaginativeness,  and  mystic  glitter- 
ings  of  her  art.  Her  personality  is  not  as  likely 
to  grow  vague  as  the  sheltered  and  secluded  New 
England  poet.  Mr.  Bragdon  has  given  us  an  in- 
timate picture  of  the  poet.  '  Although,'  he  says, 
'  in  Meredith's  phrase,  "  a  man  and  a  woman  both 
for  brains,"  she  was  an  intensely  feminine  pres- 
ence. Perfection  was  the  passion  of  her  life,  and 
as  one  discerns  it  in  her  verse,  one  marked  it  also 
in  her  raiment.  In  the  line  "  and  know  my  tear- 
drenched  veil  along  the  grass  "  I  see  again  her 
drooping  figure  with  some  trail  of  gossamer  be- 


160      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

witchment  clinging  about  or  drifting  after  her. 
Although  her  body  spoke  of  a  fastidious  and  sedu- 
lous care  in  keeping  with  her  essentially  aristo- 
cratic nature,  she  was  merciless  in  the  demands 
she  made  upon  it,  and  this  was  the  direct  cause 
of  her  loss  of  health.  The  keen  and  shining 
blade  of  her  spirit  too  greatly  scorned  its  scab- 
bard, the  body,  and  for  this  she  paid  the  uttermost 
penalty. 

"  '  Her  death  was  tragic.  Full  of  the  desire  of 
life  she  yet  was  forced  to  go,  leaving  her  work  all 
unfinished.  Her  last  year  was  spent  in  exile  at 
Saranac  Lake.  From  her  window  she  looked 
down  on  the  graveyard  — "  Trudeau's  Garden," 
she  called  it,  with  grim-gray  irony.  Here,  for- 
bidden the  work  her  metrical  study  entailed,  these 
poems  grew  —  flowers  of  a  battlefield  of  the  spirit. 
But  of  her  passionate  revolt  against  the  mandate 
of  her  destiny  she  spared  her  family  and  friends 
even  a  sign.  When  they  came  to  cheer  and  com- 
fort her  it  was  she  who  brought  them  cheer  and 
comfort.  With  magnificent  and  appalling  cour- 
age she  gave  forth  to  them  the  humor  and  gaiety 
of  her  unclouded  years,  saving  them  even  beyond 
the  end  from  knowledge  of  this  beautiful  and  ter- 
rible testament  of  a  spirit  all  unreconciled,  flashing 
"  unquenched  defiance  to  the  stars."  '  " 

Jason  paused  a  moment  as  if  to  visualize  the 
figure  of  this  brave  spirit  sitting,  under  sentence 
by  the  window,  and  looking  out  upon  "  Trudeau's 
Garden  "  which  was  drawing  her  hour  by  hour  to 
its  oblivion. 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  161 


a 


Yes,"  he  began  again,  "  her  poems  are  the 
remarkable  testament  of  a  spirit  '  flashing  un- 
quenched  defiance  to  the  stars.'  The  most  ef- 
fective utterance  of  the  poet  is  in  a  form  invented 
by  Miss  Crapsey  which  she  called  '  Cinquains.' 
They  are  like  marvellously  chiselled  gems.  Dy- 
namic in  mood  or  thought,  these  verses  strike  upon 
the  reader's  attention  with  surprise  and  wonder- 
ment. This  form  is  undoubtedly  a  result  of  work 
upon  which  JNIiss  Crapsey  was  engaged  at  one 
time,  on  the  '  Analysis  of  English  Metrics,'  and 
it  falls  into  the  scope  of  the  modern  movement  for 
new  and  concentrated  expression.  The  vigor  and 
depth  of  the  poet's  emotional  and  imaginative 
forces  are  in  these  '  Cinquains  '  at  their  ripest  and 
fullest.  The  power  to  condense  an  abstract  in- 
ner mood  into  this  utterance,  so  concrete,  so  over- 
poweringly  transformed,  has  all  the  evidence  of 
that  extraordinary  quality  we  call  genius.  Let 
me  quote  you,"  Jason  suggested,  "  a  few  of  these 
'Cinquains.'     Here  is  one  called  'Triad': 

"  These  be 
Three  silent  things: 
The  falling  snow   .   .   .  the  hour 
Before  the  dawn  .  .  .  the  mouth  of  one 
Just  dead. 

What  a  range  of  forces  is  there  brought  into  the 
compass  of  a  narrow  circle.  Not  a  superfluous 
accessory,  but  just  snow,  time  and  death  visu- 
alized so  subtly  through  the  recognition  of  si- 
lence!    There  is  the  true  quality   of  mysticism; 


162      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

the  keen,  cutting  imagination  slicing  through  the 
elementals  of  existence.  And  again  how  many 
poets  could  have  rendered  that  antique  episode  of 
morality  about  '  Susanna  and  the  Elders,'  in  these 
lines  of  Miss  Crapsey's? 

"  Why  do 
You  thus  devise 

Evil  against  her?  "     "  For  that 
She  is  beautiful,  delicate : 
Therefore. 

How  she  loads  that  simple  word  '  Therefore,'  with 
mixed  sophistry  and  scorn.  It  seems  to  shoot 
into  hypercritical  sentiment  with  the  annihilating 
force  of  David's  pebble.  Out  of  the  solitary 
listening  to  the  '  Night  Winds,'  she  is  conscious 
of  a  mystery  to  the  evocation  of  tears : 

"  The  old 
Old  winds  that  blew 
Where  chaos  was,  what  do 
They  tell  the  clattered  trees  that  I 
Should  weep  ? 

And  can  one  do  aught  but  stand  in  '  Amaze,'  at 
the  atavistic  thought  of  these  lines? 

" I  know 
Not  these  my  hands 
And  yet  I  think  there  was 
A  woman  like  me  once  had  hands 
Like  these." 

"  '  A  woman  like  me  once  had  hands  like  these,'  " 
repeated  Psyche,  holding  up  her  hands.     "  Could 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  163 

it  have  been  Deborah,  or  perhaps  Susanna  her- 
self; or  it  may  have  been  one  of  those  tender  women 
who  wrapped  the  linen  cloths  about  the  hurt  and 
pulseless  limbs  of  the  Master." 

"  There  is  an  epic  in  those  hands,"  remarked 
Jason  seriously,  with  his  eyes  held  by  the  book 
which  lay  open  on  his  knee.  "  They  may  have 
touched  strange  webs,  and  the  weight  of  precious 
gems  made  them  a  constellation  in  the  path  of 
men's  eyes,  but  they  will  have  vanished  on  the 
wind  like  a  sigh,  unless  they  have  touched  pain 
and  sorrow.  The  thrill  of  that  touch  will  come 
back  into  a  woman's  hand  after  a  thousand  years, 
and  she  will  feel  the  rocking  of  stars  and  the 
shock  of  seas,  and  the  dust  of  her  being  will  trem- 
ble as  though  a  gale  of  fire  passed  through  her, — 
and  .  .  ."  Jason  broke  off,  pausing  a  moment. 
"  Yes,"  he  resumed,  "  Miss  Crapsey  makes  you 
feel  the  epic  of  continuity  in  those  lines,  for  it  is 
only  through  hands  that  there  comes  the  realiza- 
tion of  that  gift  which  women  alone  can  give  to 
the  world." 

He  paused  again,  and  we  flowed  in  on  the  tide 
of  silence  to  those  thoughts,  vague,  but  holy, 
which  filled  his  mind. 

"  I  would  almost  rather  not  speak  of  this  next 
poem,"  Jason  apologetically  remarked  in  a  mo- 
ment, "  but  the  very  spirit  of  the  woman  com- 
pells  me  to.  Nothing  in  recent  poetry  is  so  quiv- 
eringly  pathetic  with  brave  defeat.  Can  you  re- 
alize what  it  must  have  meant  to  Miss  Crapsey 
to  write  '  To  the  Dead  in  the  Graveyard  Under- 


164      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

neath  My  Window,  Written  in  a  Moment  of  Ex- 
asperation '  ?  Not  even  Keats,  dying  there  in 
Rome,  has  done  a  thing  like  this.  No  poet  in  our 
day  has  faced  desolate  hopelessness  and  left  us  a 
record  of  the  experience.  It  is  the  supreme  obei- 
sance to  reality  in  our  poetry.  It  pulls  one  ter- 
ribly to  read  it: 

"  How  can  you  lie  so  still?     All  day  I  watch 
And  never  a  blade  of  all  the  green  sod  moves 
To  show  where  restlessly  you  turn  and  toss. 
Or  fling  a  desperate  arm  or  draw  up  knees 
Stiffened  and  aching  from  their  long  disuse; 
I  watch  all  night  and  not  one  ghost  comes  forth 
To  take  its  freedom  of  the  midnight  hour 
Oh,  have  you  no  rebellion  in  your  bones? 
The  very  worms  must  scorn  you  where  you  lie, 
A  pallid,  mouldering,  acquiescent  folk. 
Meek  habitants  of  unresented  graves. 
Why  are  you  there  in  your  straight  row  on  row. 
Where  I  must  ever  see  you  from  my  bed 
That  in  your  mere  dumb  presence  iterate 
The  text  so  weary  in  my  ears :  '  Lie  still 
And  rest;  be  patient  and  lie  still  and  rest.' 
I'll  not  be  patient !     I  will  not  lie  still. 

"  There  is  a  brown  road  runs  between  the  pines. 
And  further  on  the  purple  woodlands  lie, 
And  still  beyond  blue  mountains  lift  and  loom ; 
And  I  would  walk  the  road  and  I  would  be 
Deep  in  the  wooded  shade  and  I  would  reach 
The  windy  mountain  tops  that  touch  the  clouds. 
My  eyes  may  follow  but  my  feet  are  held. 
Recumbent  as  you  others  must  I  too 
Submit?     Be  mimic  of  your  movelessness 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  165 

With  pillow  and  counterpane  for  stone  and  sod? 

And  if  the  many  sayings  of  the  wise 

Teach  of  submission  I  will  not  submit 

But  with  a  spirit  all  unreconciled 

Flash  an  unquenched  defiance  to  the  stars. 

Better  it  is  to  walk,  to  run,  to  dance, 

Better  it  is  to  laugh  and  leap  and  sing, 

To  know  the  open  skies  of  dawn  and  night. 

To  move  untrammeled  down  the  flaming  noon. 

And  I  will  clamour  it  through  weary  days 

Keeping  the  edge  of  deprivation  sharp. 

Nor  with  the  pliant  speaking  on  my  lips 

Of  resignation,  sister  to  defeat. 

I'll  not  be  patient.     I  will  not  lie  still. 

"  And  in  ironic  quietude  Avho  is 

The  despot  of  our  days  and  lord  of  dust 

Needs  but,  scarce  heeding,  wait  to  drop 

Grim  casual  comment  on  rebellion's  end ; 

*  Yes,  yes.  .  .  .   Wilful  and  petulant  but  now 

As  dead  and  quiet  as  the  others  are.' 

And  this  each  body  and  ghost  of  you  hath  heard 

That  in  your  graves  do  therefore  lie  so  still. 

"  Tragedy  is  here  in  this  book,"  Jason  went 
on,  refusing  any  further  comment  on  the  poem  he 
had  just  read — "as  Mr.  Bragdon  says,  but 
against  it  burns  the  flame  of  desire,  the  beautiful 
yearning  that  will  not  be,  and  is  not,  quenched  un- 
til the  pitiless  despot  has  had  his  way  with  the 
flesh.  But  the  triumph  is  not  with  the  grim  weeder 
of  mortality.  Here  the  spirit  flashes  and  flames 
in  the  dark  of  our  pitiful  helplessness ;  the  urn  be- 
comes a  shrine ;  and  there  eternal  memory  keeps 


166      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

the  desire  of  life  —  the  particular  desires  of  Ade- 
laide Crapsej's  life,  a  clear  and  burning  flame 
in  the  '  immortal  residue  '  of  her  verses,  '  Flowers 
of  a  Battlefield  of  the  Spirit ' !  "  Jason  concluded 
on  a  note  of  profound  sympathy. 

"  After  Jason's  talk  on  Miss  Crapsey's  verse  I 
feel  very  incompetent  to  discuss  these  idol-break- 
ers," Psyche  confessed ;  "  and  I  am  sure  Cassandra 
will  approve  of  my  suggestion  that  you  will  tell 
us  what  you  think  of  Mr.  Kreymborg's  '  Mush- 
rooms.' "  This  was  addressed  to  me.  Cassandra 
expressed  herself  as  in  agreement  with  Psyche's 
proposal. 

"  You  are  both  in  a  listening  mood,"  I  ex- 
claimed ;  "  but  there  is  Jason  to  consider." 

"  Oh,  I  distinctly  differentiate  the  work  of  Miss 
Crapsey  and  Mr.  Kreymborg,"  Jason  quickly  gave 
his  opinion.  "  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Kreymborg  needs 
to  be  interpreted  for  me.  One  cannot  question  the 
sincerity  of  Miss  Crapsey's  verse,  the  force  of  it 
appeals  in  every  quivering  revelation  of  thought 
and  feeling.  Mr.  Kreymborg  seems  to  be  play- 
ing tricks  on  us.  If  I  could  once  snatch  the  mask 
off  there  might  be  a  real  face  behind,  but  it  wob- 
bles so  incessantly  the  difficulty  is  to  seize  it.  So 
I  quite  approve  of  Psyche's  idea  that  you  give  us 
a  rendering  of  Mr.  Kreymborg." 

"  I  don't  at  all  ask  you  to  agree  with  my  opin- 
ion of  this  poet,"  I  accepted  the  task,  "  and  I  am 
not,  by  that  opinion,  claiming  any  personal  con- 
sideration. I  wish  to  present  what  I  believe  are 
the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Kreymborg's  work  and 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  167 

its  special  claim  to  attention.  Personally  I  ap- 
preciate Mr.  Kreymborg's  verses  very  much.  I 
think  of  his  work  as  individual,  though  it  is  as- 
sociated with  a  movement  that  has  produced  a 
great  deal  that  is  mere  rubbish.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  time  at  least  will  judge  that.  In  the  mean- 
time, my  function  is  to  consider  the  poet  on  his 
own  ground,  and  judge  him  by  those  standards 
which  I  possess. 

"  The  extraordinary  symbol  which  Mr.  Kre^'m- 
borg  uses  in  the  title  of  his  book  of  poems,"  I  con- 
tinued, "  expresses  with  unusual  fitness  the  charac- 
ter of  the  poems  he  has  written.  *  Mushrooms,' 
springing  up  in  the  dew  of  morning,  glisten- 
ing and  sparkling  in  the  fields  under  the  first  kiss 
of  the  early  sunshine,  are  very  apt  illustrations, 
or  rather  analogies,  of  those  moods  that  spring 
out  of  the  mysterious  substances  of  life  which  flow 
as  experience  and  observation  through  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg's being.  This  is  how  the  poet  prefaces  his 
collection.  '  The  Mushrooms  spring  up  over 
night,  I'm  told  —  the  truth  or  reason  the  botan- 
ists prove.  This  much  I  know,  this  I  can  tell: 
when  I  go  into  the  forest  I  love,  I  can  find  them 
everywhere.  .  .  .  Mushrooms  spring  up  over 
night  in  my  heart  —  the  reason  let  philosophers 
guess.  This  much  I  know,  this  I  can  tell:  myri- 
ads on  myriads  have  I  found  down  there,  and  only 
a  handful  have  I  plucked  so  far,  I  plucked  them, 
yes,  the  few  I  could,  lest  they'd  die  with  those  I 
couldn't  reach.  One  was  a  mood  of  pale,  frail 
form ;  another  a  whimsical  sprite ;  one  was  some 


168      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

black-browed  child  of  Lear's  —  I  carry  them  up 
to  my  hothouse  attic,  up  to  my  gardener  for  cul- 
tivation.' 

"  This  implies  a  preoccupation  with  secrets, 
the  little  secrets  of  life  that  are  hidden  away  un- 
der the  scrubby  growths  of  experience.  Mr. 
Kreymborg  has  been  wise  enough  not  to  make, 
except  through  a  statement  on  his  titlepage,  any 
plea  for,  or  extenuation  of,  the  forms  into  which 
his  secrets  are  moulded.  He  is  one  of  the  ultra- 
radical innovators  of  contemporary  poetic  ex- 
pression. As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  may  be  said, 
that  Mr.  Kreymborg  fathered  a  new  school  of 
American  poets.  In  his  magazine  called  '  Others : 
A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,'  he  brought  this 
school  into  prominence,  nourishing  its  daring  ec- 
centricities of  style  and  form,  and  encouraged  an 
extreme  liberty  in  looking  upon,  and  declaring, 
certain  aspects  of  life.  These  poets  of  a  school 
so  definitely  marked,  as  that  represented  by 
'  Others,'  have  taken  a  view  of  life  whose  earnest- 
ness is  only  exceeded  by  a  fantastic  indifference  to 
moral  values.  They  do  not  delight  in  disregard- 
ing convention,  as  poets  in  the  past  have  delighted 
in  repudiating  the  spiritual,  moral  and  social 
standards  set  up  by  their  predecessors;  Mr. 
Kreymborg's  followers  have  more  violently,  as 
a  group,  wrenched  themselves  from  tradition. 
There  can  be  no  question,  whatever  one  thinks  of 
their  work  as  a  group,  or  as  individuals,  that  they 
have   been    moved   by    the   deep    undercurrent    of 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  169 

forces  which  have  lately  stirred  the  souls  of  men. 
These  forces  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  social. 
If  one  probes  deep  enough  one  will  find  a  subter- 
ranean stream  of  aspiration  linking  these  poets 
with  the  magnificent  social  schemes  of  the  day. 
This  may  seem  a  too  serious  mood  in  which  to 
regard  the  school  of  '  Others.'  Yet  somehow,  I 
think  one  must  understand  what  is  at  the  bottom 
of  their  protest.  One  is  willing  to  admit  that 
their  resentment  against  life  as  they  find  it  is  not 
new;  nor  do  they  differ  very  strongly  in  their 
passions  or  their  ideals  from  the  radical  groups 
of  former  periods.  They  have  had  a  more  diffi- 
cult time  in  proving  their  sincerity  than  any 
other  group  of  American  poets.  If  this  difficulty 
is  great,  a  greater  difficulty  confronts  them  in  con- 
vincing the  average  reader  of  their  claim  to  ar- 
tistic achievement.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  be- 
lieve they  often  fail  artistically  by  exterior  rather 
than  inner  convictions.  Grossness  and  vulgarity ; 
cheap  and  tawdry  affectations ;  wilful  perverse- 
ness  of  mood ;  dogmatism  without  a  reasonable 
evidence  of  proof;  a  calculating  arrogance  of 
speech :  these  often  make  their  work  unsound  in 
substance  and  trivial  in  expression. 

"  Many  of  these  defects  are  due  to  youthful- 
ness ;  but  youth  with  all  its  latent  and  irresponsible 
tone  of  independence,  must  be  treated  with  indul- 
gence. I  admit  it  would  be  easier  to  grant  this 
indulgence,  if  youth  were  less  serious  in  postur- 
ing the  truths  it  claims  to  have  discovered.     We 


170      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

must,  however,  even  at  its  worst,  admire  the  vi- 
tahty  in  this  work.  And  if  we  insist  on  following 
the  diverse  and  tortuous  streams  of  this  vitality, 
we  will  somewhere  come  out  upon  pleasant  fields, 
and  pass  through  the  cool  and  bosky  shades  of 
dreams  and  mysteries  in  the  land  of  these  adven- 
turesome writers  of  free  forms. 

"  Mr.  Kreymborg,"  I  impressed  upon  my  listen- 
ers, "  is  the  most  potent  singer  of  his  school. 
This  volume  of  his  I  am  discussing,  on  the  surface 
may  present, —  but  I  trust  it  will  do  more  for 
those  who  really  get  beneath  its  surface  —  an  ar- 
ray of  oddities  and  conceits,  of  contradictions  and 
paradoxes,  which  seem  tenuous  of  substantial 
meanings.  As  Jason  hinted,  one  may  question 
very  much  his  sincerity.  But  that,  after  all,  is 
only  his  manner;  and  we  must  allow  a  man  his 
individual  temperament.  Let  me  say,  however, 
that  at  his  best  —  and  he  is  no  more  proportionally 
at  his  best  than  any  other  good  poet  —  or  however 
complex  may  be  his  expression,  he  is  sound  and 
suggestive  in  poetically  rendering  the  moods  and 
conditions  of  life  that  appeal  to  him.  It  is  sig- 
nificant that  the  first  poem  in  '  Mushrooms  ' — 
which  he  calls  '  Fugue  ' —  should,  in  the  briefest 
compass  interpret  five  of  the  major  solutions  of 
life.  By  each  of  these,  or  by  some  pathetic  yearn- 
ing for  all,  the  individual  seeks  to  unravel  the 
riddle  of  existence;  through  philosoph}^  faith,  la- 
bor, guerdon,  or  heaven.  Each  of  these  becomes 
interrogative  in  the  poet's  thought.  Let  us  see, 
for  instance,  what  he  makes  of  faith  and  labor : 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  171 

"Faith? 
Oh  yes ! 

A  belief  in  you, 
and  you  and  you, 
in  spite  of  your  you 
and  your  you  for  you. 
Labor  ? 
Oh  yes ! 

That  my  me  and  you 
may  become  and  grow 
toward  a  you  and  me. 

Even  if  this  quotation  does  not  puzzle  the  reader 
—  which  I'll  not  say  it  won't  —  it  may  be  entirely 
too  original  to  convince  him.  Now  let  us  try  the 
effect  of  Mr.  Kreymborg's  '  Credo  ' : 

"  I  sing  the  will  to  love 
the  will  that  craves  the  will  to  live, 
the  will  that  saps  the  will  to  trust, 
the  will  that  kills  the  will  to  die; 
the  will  that  made  and  keeps  you  warm, 
the  will  that  points  your  eyes  ahead, 
the  will  that  makes  you  give  not  get, 
a  give  and  get  that  tell  us  what  you  are. 
How  much  a  god,  how  much  a  human. 
I  call  on  you  to  live  the  will  to  love. 

One  cannot  find  any  difficulty  in  accepting  the 
form  which  presents  so  persuasive  a  truth  as  these 
lines  hold.  The  power  of  Mr.  Kreymborg  to 
compress  a  remarkably  significant  meaning,  aglow 
with  imagination,  into  the  brevity  of  a  couplet,  is 
shown  in  this  poem  '  On  and  In  ' : 


172      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  There's  a  wart  on  my  nose,  a  patch  on  my  pants  — 
who  cares? 
'Gainst  the  itch  in  my  veins  from  the  hymn  in  my 
heart  —  who  dares  ? 

That  may  be  nonsense  to  most  people,  and  I  dare- 
say it  got  itself  written  on  an  impulse  of  ridicu- 
lous levity,  but  it  does  say  something  with  ec- 
stasy." 

"  What  is  the  something?  "  asked  Jason  with 
a  taunt. 

"  Oh,  just  that  life  is  a  very  good  affair  no 
matter  what  happens  to  be  your  place  in  the  world, 
providing  you  have  a  heart  capable  of  response 
to  beauty  and  joy,  and  will  manifest  it  through 
an  active  relationship  with  your  fellows.  It  is 
really  very  simple,  isn't  it?  But  surely  it  is  very 
important  too." 

Jason  uttered  something  that  was  like  a  grunt 
of  disgust.  "  I  haven't  that  kind  of  penetration 
for  poetic  values,"  he  said.  "  But  go  on.  For  I 
see  Psyche  and  Cassandra  are  almost  convinced 
that  Mr.  Kreymborg  is  a  poet." 

"  Don't  mind  him,"  exclaimed  Psyche.  "  I'm 
sure  you've  done  very  well  for  Mr.  Kreymborg." 

"  A  very  non-committal  expression,  milady," 
laughed  Jason. 

"  I  would  like  to  call  your  attention,"  I  ar- 
rested the  persiflage  of  my  companions,  "  to  a 
poem  none  of  you  could  fail  to  have  noted  in  your 
reading.  It  is  the  '  Overheard  in  an  Asylum,'  a 
poem  in  which  I  think  Mr.  Kreymborg's  imagina- 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  173 

tion   exalts    a    subtle   conception.     Let   me    read 
it: 

"  And  here  we  have  another  case 
quite  different  from  the  last, 
another  case  quite  different  — 
Listen. 

"  Baby,  drink. 
The  war  is  over. 
Mother's  breasts 
are  round  with  milk. 

"  Baby,  rest. 
The  war  is  over. 
Only  pigs 
slop  over  so. 

"  Baby,  sleep. 
The  war  is  over. 
Daddy's  come 
with  a  German  coin. 

"  Baby,  dream. 
The  war  is  over. 
You'll  be  a  soldier 
too. 

"  We  gave  her  the  doll  — 
Now  there  we  have  another  case, 
quite  different  from  — 

That  is  a  rather  tremendous  piece  of  poignancy. 
It  is  sufficient  to  stamp  the  quality  of  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg's  poetic  substance.     The  extreme  radicalism 


174      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

of  his  poems  are  so  utilized  as  to  express  a  will, 
an  imaginative  and  emotional  sensitiveness,  sel- 
dom betrayed  by  bad  taste,  or  wildly  unreason- 
able deductions.  He  saves  what  would  seem 
strained  by  another  poet  of  his  particular  group, 
by  a  wholesome  touch  of  grace.  The  wistfulness 
of  the  poems  in  the  group  called  '  Nephews  and 
Nieces,'  reveals  the  kind  of  wisdom  which  flows  from 
sentiments  whose  source  is  pure.  I  have  delighted 
in  this  book ;  and  wherever  I  have  not  been  able 
to  accept  the  poet's  philosophy,  I  have  at  least 
recognized  the  fresh  and  inquiring  impulse  which 
prompted  the  utterance." 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  Kreymborg  will  ever  be 
taken  seriously?  "  asked  Psyche. 

"  Do  you  think  he  wants  to  be  taken  seriously?  " 
added  Jason. 

"  I  doubt  whether  it  matters  very  much  to  him," 
I  answered.  "  He  has  got  something  to  say,  and 
so  long  as  he  says  it,  he  should  have  little  con- 
cern with  what  the  public  makes  of  it, —  if  it  will 
make  something  that  is  honest." 

"  Is  that  an  attitude  of  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment? "  Cassandra  wanted  to  know. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  isn't,  but  it  should  be,"  I  re- 
plied. "  And  the  evidence  is  in  the  prefaces  which 
so  many  poets  to-day  are  adding  to  their  books. 
The  effect  of  a  preface  is  oratorical." 

"  Mr.  Fletcher  strikes  another  attitude,  I  see, 
in  '  Goblins  and  Pagodas,'  "  said  Jason. 

"  As  in  his  volume  of  last  year,"  I  replied, 
"  Mr.  Fletcher  has  a  preface  in  this  new  book,  to 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  175 

explain  the  fundamental  principles  of  his  art.  It 
is  a  keen,  lucid,  explanatory  piece  of  writing,  but 
all  the  same  I  wish  it  had  not  been  included.  No 
amount  of  this  kind  of  persuasion  will  help  the 
reader  to  an  understanding  of  the  poet's  particu- 
lar form  or  substance.  Whatever  his  method,  the 
poems  must  stand  by  themselves.  He  must  trust 
to  their  own  revealing  power.  The  person  who 
leaves  them  without  understanding  or  enjoyment, 
is  the  poorer  for  his  own  limitations.  Poetry, 
after  all,  is  a  suggestive  art;  and  the  meaning  a 
poet  may  consciously  put  into  his  work  may, 
through  the  peculiar  emotional  and  spiritual  con- 
stitution of  the  reader,  suggest  an  entirely  differ- 
ent significance.  Any  poem  that  does  not  arouse 
sentiments  and  feelings  of  different  realities  to 
different  people,  is  not  a  poem  possessing  the  vi- 
tality to  live  even  a  very  brief  life.  The  surest 
success  of  any  new  form  of  art  is  that  the  sub- 
stance becomes  so  finely  evoked,  the  form  dissolves 
emotionally  into  the  impression  of  the  material. 
It  is  a  test  any  art  must  stand,  and  in  which  the 
art  of  poetry  must  stand  unsupported  by  tech- 
nical theories.  It  has  been  proved  only  too  often 
that  theories  of  poetic  form  and  diction  have  be- 
come in  time  nothing  more  than  mere  cant." 

"  I  quite  agree  in  your  opinion,"  Psyche  joined 
in.  "  And  Mr.  Fletcher  well  illustrates  the  point 
in  connection  with  the  '  Symphonies,'  in  this  vol- 
ume. Here  is  a  series  of  symbolical  poems  with 
a  deep  idealistic  undermeaning.  They  are  given 
the  name  of  colors,  because  they  create  the  mood 


176      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

in  which  the  soul  expresses  itself.  These  colors 
are  symbols  of  a  spiritual  state;  the  series  as  a 
whole  developing  the  ideal  perfection  of  humanity. 
The  poet  explains  his  purpose  in  them  in  this 
paragraph  I  shall  read  from  his  preface :  '  My 
aim  in  writing  these  was,  from  the  beginning,  to 
narrate  certain  important  phases  of  the  emotional 
and  intellectual  development  —  in  short,  the  life 
—  of  an  artist,  not  necessarily  myself,  but  of  that 
sort  of  artist  with  which  I  might  find  myself  most 
in  sympathy.  And  here,  not  being  restrained  by 
any  definite  material  phenomena,  as  in  the  "  Old 
House,"  I  have  tried  to  state  each  phase  in  the 
terms  of  a  certain  color,  or  combination  of  colors, 
which  is  emotionally  akin  to  that  phase.  This 
color,  and  the  imaginative  phantasmagoria  of 
landscape  which  it  evokes,  thereby  creates,  in  a 
definite  and  tangible  form,  the  dominant  mood  of 
each  poem.'  The  central  poem  of  the  series  is 
the  '  White  Symphony.'  In  it  the  poet  describes 
the  '  artist's  struggle  to  attain  unutterable  and 
superhuman  perfection.'  I  shall  read  it,"  Psyche 
offered,  "  though  I  won't  profess  to  catch  the 
cadence  of  vers  lihre  as  one  trained  in  the  prin- 
ciples of  Imagism  might." 

"  But  you  have  read  Henley's  '  London  Volun- 
taries,' and  such  poems  as  Matthew  Arnold's  '  Pi- 
lomela,'  '  A  Summer  Night,'  and  '  Dover  Beach,' 
very  successfully,"  interrupted  Jason. 

"  Yes,  but  the  commotion  of  those  poems  was 
beneath  the  surface,  and  swept  one  into  the  cur- 
rent   of   meaning   with    an    easy    sensibility,"    re- 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  177 

joined  Psyche.  "  The  commotion  of  the  modern 
Imagist  is  sometimes  too  palpably  on  the  surface. 
I  don't  deny  a  fine  spiritual  strain  in  Mr.  Fletch- 
er's verse,  but  I  sometimes  wonder  at  his  verbal 
turbulence,  why  he  need  be  so  angry  with  words, 
lashing  them  into  service  rather  than  wooing  and 
fraternizing  them  through  self-possessed  compul- 
sion. Nevertheless  you  will  hear  a  beautiful  poem, 
which  I  hope  not  entirely  to  spoil  in  the  reading." 
And  Psyche  read :  the  '"  White  Symphony  " : 


"  Forlorn  and  white, 
Whorls  of  purity  about  a  golden  chalice. 
Immense  the  peonies 
Flare  and  shatter  their  petals  over  my  face. 

"  They  slowly  turn  paler. 
They  seem  to  be  melting  like  blue-grey  flakes  of  ice. 
Thin  greyish  shivers 

Fluctuating  'mid  the  dark  green  lance-thrust  of  the 
leaves. 

"  Like  snowballs  tossed. 
Like  soft  white  butterflies. 
The  peonies  poise  in  the  twilight, 
And  their  narcotic  insinuating  perfume 
Draws  me  into  them 
Shivering  with  the  coolness. 
Aching  with  the  void. 
They  kiss  the  blue  chalice  of  my  dreams 
Like  a  gesture  seen  for  an  instant  and  then  lost  for- 
ever. 


178      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Outwards  the  petals 
Thrust  to  embrace  me. 
Pale  daggers  of  coldness 
Run  through  my  aching  breast. 

"  Outwards,  still  outwards, 
Till  on  the  brink  of  twilight 
They  swirl  downwards  silently. 
Flurry  of  snow  in  the  void. 

"  Outwards,  still  outwards. 
Till  the  blue  walls  are  hidden, 
And  in  the  blinding  white  radiance 
Of  a  whirlpool  of  clouds,  I  awake. 

*     *     * 

"  Like  spraying  rockets 
My  peonies  shower 
Their  glories  on  the  night. 

"  Wavering  perfumes. 
Drift  about  the  garden; 
Shadows  of  the  moonlight, 
Drift  and  ripple  over  the  dew-gemmed  leaves. 
Soar,  crash,  and  sparkle. 
Shoal  of  stars  drifting 
Like  silver  fishes. 
Through  the  black  sluggish  boughs. 

"  Towards  the  impossible, 
Towards  the  inaccessible. 
Towards  the  ultimate, 
Towards  the  silence. 
Towards  the  eternal, 
These  blossoms  go. 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  179 

The  peonies  spring  like  rockets  in  the  twilight, 
And  out  of  them  all  I  rise. 

II 

Downwards  through  the  blue  abyss  it  slides, 
The  white  snow-water  of  my  dreams, 
Downwards  crashing  from  slippery  rock 
Into  the  boiling  chasm: 

In  which  no  eye  dare  look,  for  it  is  the  chasm  of 
death. 

Upwards  from  the  blue  abyss  it  rises, 

The  chill  water-mist  of  my  dreams: 

Upwards  to  greyish  weeping  pines. 

And  to  skies  of  autumn  ever  about  my  heart. 

It  is  blue  at  the  beginning, 

And  blue-white  against  the  grey-greenness ; 

It  wavers  in  the  upper  air. 

Catching  unconscious  sparkles,  a  rainbow-glint  of 

sunlight. 
And  fading  in  the  sad  depths  of  the  sky. 

Outwards  rush  the  strong-pale  clouds. 

Outwards  and  ever  outwards ; 

The   blue-grey   clouds   indistinguishable   one   from 

another: 
Nervous,  sinewy,  tossing  their  arms  and  brandishing. 
Till  on  the  blue  serrations  of  the  horizon 
They  drench  with  their  black  rain  a  great  peak  of 

changeless  snow. 

*     *     * 

'  As  evening  came  on,  I  climbed  the  tower. 
To  gaze  upon  the  city  far  beneath : 


180      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

I  was  not  weary  of  day ;  but  in  the  evening 

A  white  mist  assembled  and  gathered  over  the  earth 

And  blotted  it  from  sight. 

"  But  to  escape: 
To  chase  with  the  golden  clouds  galloping  over  the 

horizon: 
Arrows  of  the  northwest  wind 
Singing  amid  them. 
Ruffling  up  my  hair ! 

As  evening  came  on  the  distance  altered, 
Pale  wavering  reflections  rose  from  out  the  city, 
Like  sighs  or  the  beckoning  of  half-invisible  hands. 
Monotonously  and  sluggishly  they  crept  upwards 
A  river  that  had  spent  itself  in  some  chasm, 
And  dwindled  and  foamed  at  last  at  my  weary  feet. 

"  Autumn  !     Golden  fountains, 
And  the  winds  neighing 
Amid  the  monotonous  hills: 
Desolation  of  the  old  gods. 
Rain  that  lifts  and  rain  that  moves  away: 
In  the  green-black  torrent 
Scarlet  leaves. 

"  It  was  now  perfectly  evening: 
And  the  tower  loomed  like  a  gaunt  peak  in  mid-air 
Above  the  city:  its  base  was  utterly  lost. 
It  was  slowly  coming  on  to  rain. 
And  the  immense  columns  of  white  mist 
Wavered  and  broke  before  the  faint-hurled  spears. 

"  I  will  descend  the  mountains  like  a  shepherd. 
And  in  the  folds  of  tumultuous  misty  cities, 
I  will  put  all  my  thoughts,  all  my  old  thoughts, 
safely  to  sleep. 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  181 

For  it  is  already  autumn, 

O  whiteness  of  the  pale  southwestern  sky ! 

O  wavering  dream  that  was  not  mine  to  keep ! 


"  In  midnight,  in  mournful  moonlight, 
By  paths  I  could  not  trace, 
I  walked  in  the  white  garden. 
Each  flower  had  a  white  face. 

"  Their  perfume  intoxicated  me :  thus   I   began   my 
dream. 

"  I  was  alone ;  I  had  no  one  to  guide  me. 
But  the  moon  was  like  the  sun : 
It  stooped  and  kissed  each  waxen  petal. 
One  after  one. 

"  Green  and  white  was  that  garden :  diamond  rain 
hung  in  the  branches. 
You  will  not  believe  it ! 

» 

"  In  the  morning,  at  the  dayspring, 
I  wakened,  shivering;  lo. 
The  white  garden  that  blossomed  at  my  feet 
Was  a  garden  hidden  in  snow. 

"  It  was  my  sorrow  to  see  that  all  this  was  a  dream. 

Ill 

"  Blue,  clogged  with  purple. 
Mists  uncoil  themselves : 
Sparkling  to  the  horizon, 
I  see  the  snow  alone. 


182      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  In  the  deep  blue  chasm, 
Boats  sleep  under  gold  thatch: 
Icicle-like  trees  fret 
Faintly  rose-touched  sky. 

"  Under  their  heaped  snow-eaves. 
Leaden  houses  shiver. 
Through  thin  blue  crevasses. 
Trickles  an  icy  stream. 

"  The  pines  groan  white-laden, 
The  waves  shiver,  struck  by  the  wind; 
Beyond  from  treeless  horizons. 
Broken  snow-peaks  crawl  to  the  sea. 

*     *     * 

"  Wearily  the  snow  glares, 
Through  the  grey  silence,  day  after  day, 
Mocking  the  colorless  cloudless  sky 
With  the  reflection  of  death, 

"  There  is  no  smoke  through  the  pine  tops. 
No  strong  red  boatmen  in  pale  green  reeds, 
No  herons  to  flicker  an  instant. 
No  lanterns  to  glow  with  gay  ray. 

"  No  sails  beat  up  to  the  harbour. 
With  creaking  cordage  and  sailors'  song. 
Somnolent,  bare-poled,  indiff'erent, 
They  sleep,  and  the  city  sleeps. 

"  Mid-winter  about  them  casts 
Its  dreary  fortifications : 
Each  day  is  a  gaunt  grey  rock, 
And  death  is  the  last  of  them  all. 


*     *     * 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  183 

"  Over  the  sluggish  snow, 
Drifts  now  a  pallid  weak  shower  of  bloom; 
Boredom  of  fresh  creation. 
Death-weariness  of  old  returns. 

"  White,  white  blossom. 
Fall  of  the  shattered  cups  day  on  day: 
Is  there  anything  here  that  is  not  ancient. 
That  has  not  bloomed  a  thousand  years  ago  ? 

"  Under  the  glare  of  the  white-hot  day. 
Under  the  restless  wind-rakes  of  the  winter. 
White  blossom  or  white  snow  scattered. 
And  beneath  them,  dark,  the  graves. 

"  Dark  graves  never  changing. 
White  dream  drifting,  never  changing  above  them: 
O  that  the  white  scroll  of  heaven  might  be  rolled  up. 
And  the  naked  red  lightning  thrust  at  the  smoulder- 
ing earth !  " 

"  You  did  read  it  surprisingly  well,"  Jason 
praised.  "  There  is  a  kind  of  lingering  cadence 
in  the  voice  which  one  can't  get  through  the  eye 
in  such  a  poem.  But  what  interests  me  very  much 
is  the  substance.  The  relation  of  the  mood  to  the 
color,  is,  I  think,  purely  arbitrary.  In  this  par- 
ticular symphony  the  poet  describes  the  '  artist's 
struggle  to  attain  unutterable  and  superhuman 
perfection.'  In  what,  may  I  ask.^^  All  through 
this  series  of  symphonies,  the  goal,  as  we  are  told, 
is  the  '  city  of  art.'  But  that  signifies  nothing, 
unless  the  artist  has  some  purpose  in  his  pilgrim- 
age. Professing  idealism,  yet  he  has  no  ideals. 
'  Let  us  take  an  artist,'  explains  the  poet  in  his 


184      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

preface,  *  a  young  man  at  the  outset  of  his  career. 
His  years  of  searching,  of  fumbhng,  of  other  men's 
influence,  are  coming  to  an  end.  Sure  of  himself, 
he  yet  sees  that  he  will  spend  all  his  life  pursuing 
a  vision  of  beauty  which  will  elude  him  at  the  very 
last.'  But  beauty  should  take  some  very  definite 
shape  in  his  dreams.  It  should  have  some  mean- 
ing. That  is  what  these  symphonies  lack.  Could 
Mr.  Fletcher  have  had  Shelley  in  mind  as  his  type 
of  artist.?  But  Shelley  had  passions;  liberty, 
justice,  love.  These  were  real  forces  in  a  world 
of  real  people.  Mr.  Fletcher's  artist  dies  *  for  an 
adventure.'  An  adventure  that  makes  no  reckless 
sacrifice  for  truth,  only  a  cautious  pursuit  of 
sensual  enjoyment.  What  strikes  me  as  chiefly  no- 
table in  these  symphonies  is  the  profuse  imagery  of 
the  natural  world.  The  symbolism,  in  my  mind,  is 
scarcely  related  to  any  elements  in  the  secrecy  of 
human  emotion.     It's  a  noisy,  external  art." 

"  I  don't  at  all  agree  with  you,  Jason,"  I  said. 
"  There  is  an  indwelling  something  in  these  sym- 
phonies that  is  rather  fine.  They  are  ambitious, 
I'll  admit ;  and  they  are  new  in  our  poetry.  Only 
a  few  people  will  enjoy  them  as  only  a  few  will 
understand  them.  But  with  the  exception  of  the 
'  Blue  Symphony  '  and  '  Green  Symphony,'  I  pre- 
fer the  poems  in  '  The  Ghosts  of  an  Old  House.' 
These  poems  are  more  appealing;  less  abstract, 
they  have  the  ruddier  substance  of  human  ex- 
perience. I  have  claimed  for  Mr.  Fletcher  a  more 
poignant  regard  for  old  memories  and  associations, 
than  any  among  our  poets.     It  is  a  unique  sense 


THE  IDOL-BREAKERS  185 

because  it  is  unmixed  with  the  grosser  elements 
of  the  present.  He  really  transforms  his  being; 
the  past  is  not  brought  up  to  time,  he  disembodies 
time  to  materialize  the  past.  It  is  thus  that  he 
deals  with  his  '  ghosts  '  of  '  The  House,'  '  The 
Attic,'  '  The  Lawn.'  One  cannot  conceive  these 
'  ghosts,'  as  fancies  of  an  imaginative  mind,  com- 
bining out  of  almost  forgotten  experiences  these 
sharply  etched  associations.  Each  particular 
part  of  the  house  —  bedroom,  library,  nursery, 
the  backstairs  and  the  front  yard  —  have  been 
too  deeply  engraved  upon  the  hard  substances  of 
life.  Yet  there  is  something  very  common  in  these 
reminiscences  very  common  to  all  of  us ;  the  things 
we  more  often  think  and  dream  about  when  there 
floats  up  to  the  surface  of  our  consciousness,  faded 
and  mellow  moods  of  childhood  and  youth.  Let 
me  read  this  verse  on  '  The  Front  Door,'  and  you 
cannot  escape  that  ache  which,  though  time  heals 
it,  the  scar  remains : 

"  It  was  always  the  place  where  our  farewells  were 
taken, 
When  we  travelled  to  the  north. 

"  I   remember  there  was  one  who  made  some  jour- 
ney. 
But  did  not  come  back. 
Many  years  they  waited  for  him. 
At  last  the  one  who  wished  the  most  to  see  him, 
Was  carried  out  of  this  self-same  door  in  death. 

"  Since  then  all  our  family  partings 
Have  been  at  another  door. 


186      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Taking  us  through  the  attic  and  over  the 
lawn,  the  poet  touches,  through  the  magic  of  his 
tender  affection,  many  an  old  object  and  scene 
into  life;  life  a  little  withdrawn,  as  it  should  be, 
from  the  rushing  waves  of  the  present,  but  stately 
and  dignified  in  its  vivid  seclusion  from  the  world 
of  boisterous  reality.  The  mustiness  of  decay  has 
wrought  no  change  upon  that  vivid  reality  of  the 
past.  In  an  '  Epilogue  '  to  these  ghostly  pres- 
ences hovering  like  wraiths  over  a  twilight  stream 
in  the  poet's  heart,  he  loyally  wonders 

"  Why  it  was  I  do  not  know. 
But  last  night  I  vividly  dreamed, 
Though  a  thousand  miles  away. 
That  I  had  come  back  to  you. 

"  The  windows  were  the  same: 
The  bed,  the  furniture  the  same. 
Only  there  was  a  door  where  empty  wall  had  always 

been, 
And  someone  was  trying  to  enter  it. 

"  I  heard  the  grate  of  a  key. 
An  unknown  voice  apologetically 
Excused  its  intrusion,  just  as  I  awoke. 

"  But  I  wonder  after  all, 
If  there  was  some  secret  entrance-way. 
Some  ghost  I  overlooked,  when  I  was  there." 

"  Yes,"  said  Psyche  as  we  left  the  woods,  "  the 
artist  has  grown  human  dreaming  of  the  old 
house.     Art  is  too  often  a  barrier  to  poetry." 


IX 

THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES 

There  was  something  mysterious  about 
Psyche's  absence.  She  had  not  returned  from 
town  when  we  started  for  the  grove.  It  was  a 
very  warm  day ;  a  sort  of  haze  sifted  through  the 
valley;  the  woods  were  enveloped  in  that  grayish 
veil  which  seemed  to  us  the  wind-borne  sign  of 
forest  fires,  burning  beyond  the  range  of  the  dis- 
tant hills  lying  west  of  the  Merrimac  River. 
The  air  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  sky  was 
opaque  but  for  the  angry  red  disk  of  the  sun 
glaring  in  the  mid-heavens.  Our  moods  were  in 
sympathy  with  the  unusual  condition  which  the 
accident  of  man  had  forced  upon  nature.  Not 
only  Psyche's  absence,  but  the  menacing  sky 
wrought  upon  our  feelings,  till  we  experienced  an 
anxiety  we  did  not  understand,  nor  tried  to  ex- 
plain. Instead  of  going  directly  to  our  protect- 
ing pine  in  the  sheltering  grove,  we  passed 
beyond  our  usual  turning-in  path,  up  to  the 
top  of  Laurel  Hill,  where  a  clearing  gave  us 
a  wide  view  of  the  valley  to  the  west  and  north. 
We  stood  and  gazed  at  a  scene  which  was  both 
lovely  and  terrible  in  its  aspects.     The  intervale 

before  us  was  broken  up  into  farms,  whose  home- 

187 


188      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

steads  nestled  like  breasts  of  white  birds  in  the 
earth.  In  the  field  the  haymakers  threaded  their 
way,  gathering  the  silver  harvests. 

Winding  along  the  road  in  the  middle  dis- 
tance, we  saw  a  dark  object  approaching  The 
Farm,  where  it  stopped.  Apparently  someone 
had  arrived,  for  after  watching  the  object  some 
moments,  we  saw  it  wheel  around  and  return  in 
the  direction  from  which  it  came.  "  We  have  had 
a  motor  visitor,"  remarked  Cassandra,  "  and  our 
pleasure  in  the  art  of  poetry  has  prevented  an 
exercise  of  hospitality." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  her  words,  we  were 
all  watching  a  figure  moving  across  the  pasture 
towards  the  woods.  "  I  do  believe  that  it  is 
Psyche,"  Cassandra  spoke  again.  "  But  I  can't 
explain  the  motor  car." 

We  did  not  have  to  wait  longer  than  it  took 
Psyche  to  reach  us  —  for  it  was  Psyche  —  to  dis- 
cover the  mystery  of  the  car.  She  came  up  radi- 
ant, and  with  a  provokingly  secretive  smile. 
"  Our  poets,"  I  addressed  her,  "  have  waited  long 
for  your  attention,  Psyche,  and  I  shouldn't  blame 
them  for  complaining  of  your  neglect  of  their 
rhymes,  for  the  rhythm  of  the  flowing  road,  which 
you  apparently  have  been  enjoying  from  the 
luxurious  seat  of  an  automobile.  Lovers  of  po- 
etry, it  seems,  may  enjoy  such  a  luxury  of  modern 
travelling  on  a  hot  da}'^  like  this,  even  if  poets 
themselves  cannot ;  though  we  are  supposed  to  be 
upon  prosperous  days  for  the  art." 

"  You  make  it  hard  for  me  to  confess  mv  in- 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      189 

discretion,"  Psyche  replied  with  diffidence ;  "  for 
I  have  really  become  romantic  in  this  modern  age, 
and  purchased  a  '  knight.'  " 

"  A  stern  and  bold  one,  I  trust !  "  was  my  sur- 
prised exclamation  at  her  apology  for  neglecting 
poetry.  Cassandra  was  too  confounded  for  ut- 
terance; while  Jason  wore  a  smile  of  approval. 

"  Well,  it  is  one,  anyway,  that  can  take  me  — 
and  you,  too,  my  friends,  if  you  will  accept 
my  hospitality  —  over  Mr.  Clapp's  '  Overland  ' 
route."  And  taking  some  sheets  of  paper  from 
her  bag,  she  began  quoting  as  we  walked  along  to 
the  grove,  this  poem : 

"  Out  of  the  desolation  and  the  emptiness, 
the  vast  flat,  gaunt  green  land, 
out  of  the  pale,  primeval,  blue  sky  and  the  sweet 

sun, — 
the  horizon's  gold  and  silver  bastioned,  purple-piled 

cloud  mountain  ranges 
of  thunder  storms  that  bring  thin  rains  at  night, — 
speak,  O  thou  mute  and  mighty  earth-transfusing 

spirit, 
speak  and  break 
the  spell  of  the  phantasmal,  hurtling,  inert,  smiling 

day. 
Voice  of  the  dull-brown  haycocks,  listless  windmills, 

the  barren,  squat,  meek,  lonely  little  houses, 
the  glittering,  restless,  wind-streaked  chrysoprase  of 

corn, — 
stark  dearth  of  red  earth  miles  on  miles,  gigantic 

palisaded  rock-ruins  crumbling  by  dry  rivers, 

thistles,  daisies, 
lank  fences  stalking  out  against  the  sky 


190      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

threading  the  waste, — 

voice  of  the  soul  of  this  treeless  land  where  never 

the  feet  of  men  were  set  till  yesterday, 

speak  while  the  train 

rolls  making  rhythms,  rattling,  roaring,  clicking, 
crashing,  caught 

out  of  the  emptiness,  rhythms  of  space,  sledge- 
riveted  fast  and  faster 

into  my  spirit,  till  my  spirit  makes  its  wings  of 
them, — 

nay  more,  bid  thou  God's  self  speak,  as  from  west  to 
eastern  sea 

wheels  whirl  me,  hurl  me,  hissing,  jarring,  being 
bound  beyond  the  sea  .  .  . 

"  Let  Him  look  out  with  me,  with  me  remember 
what  else  were  but  a  hopeless  cirque  of  changes, 
the  blank  stupendous  ages  of  the  making, — 
winter,  spring, 

the  fierce,  still  summer,  autumn  when  gigantic 
winds  hurled  down  His  heavens  on  His  earth, — 
snow,  the  endless,   soothing,   saving,  silent  white- 
ness,— 
as  aeon  into  less  bleak  aeon  crept. 

0  world  divine ! 

add  thou  this  to  thy  story,  this  remember, 
how  I  caught  up  upon  this  beating  iron  thing, 
saw  clear  as  God  sees, 

in  one  moment  seized  in  my  life  His  life, — 
how  I,  who  foresaw  seeing  all  with  Him, 
am  all  this  vast  land's  dull  unaging  change,  the  gor- 
geous harvest, 
and  all  the  blue,  pale  sky,  the  fields,  the  houses, 
hills,— 

1  who  am  mv  love  who  sits  across  the  ocean ! 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      191 

O  to  be  for  her  sake,  being  her,  creation's  self  and 

God's  self, 
heart  that  feels  it  all  and  hand  that  makes  and  moves 
continent  and  ocean,  earth  and  heavens, 
as  grinding  still,  still  breathless,  ponderous,  arrow- 
like, relentless, 
hour  on  hour  we  roar. 

The  bare  land  twists  and  twists  and  falls  behind, 
the  cross-treed  poles  jump  up,  and  flickering  drift  to 

nothing  —  dots  across  the  world's  edge  — 
the  eager  wires,  sagging,  heaving  on, 
pierce  the  thin  air  with  windless  murmurings 
far  flashing  light-swift  thoughts  from  sea  to  sea. 
But  thou,  more  strong  to  grip  life  vast  and  whole, 
greenly  to  grasp  the  great  world  like  spring  grass, 
bluely  to  hold  it  mine  like  sun-blue  seas, 
to  see  beyond  man,  nature,  fathoming  God, — 
be  quicker  than  thy  dreams,  O  soul  of  mine  .   .   . 
speed,  speed,  thou  more  than  God,  thou  throbbing, 

whistling  pulse  of  all  things, — 
life,  love  .   .   . 

and,  O  to  be  with  you,  my  love,  to  be  with  you ! 
Desire  makes  all  our  fiery,  shouting  speed,  stagna- 
tion, 
makes  as  the  dead  past  nations  yet  to  spring  here 
throned  in  the  pregnant  waste  grown  radiant, 

and  less  than  figments  of  a  dying  dream 
the  aeon-builded  earth,  the  building  God 
who  knows  no  more  than  day  and  night,  blue  sky, 
green  earth, —  who  blindly  makes  and  passes, 
groping  with  mighty  hands  that  shaping  feel 
ever  from  nothing  into  nothingness  .  .  . 
I, —  O   my   all-embracing  soul,  my  life's  God-con- 
quering, God-creating  soul-vibration, — 


192      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

I  listen,  care  what  has  been,  what  will  yet  be, 
love,  being  you,  who  fly  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  will  take  a  pretty  good  car  to  follow  Mr. 
Clapp's  '  Overland  '  route,"  Cassandra  suggested. 
"  If  the  Overland  roads  are  as  irregular  as  his 
verse,  there'll  be  difficult  travelling,  indeed." 

"  I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Clapp's  purpose  may 
be,"  Jason  added  his  opinion,  "  but  to  the  eye  he 
seems  one  of  the  free-formers,  and  to  the  ear  a 
conventional  metrist.  He  doesn't  begin  each  line, 
but  each  stanza  —  which  may  be  twenty-one  lines, 
as  in  the  opening  poem  of  his  volume,  '  On  the 
Overland,' —  with  a  capital  letter.  Yet  the  lines 
may  be  of  arbitrary  length,  without  rhyme,  or  of 
regular  metre  and  rhyme.  Even  so  strict  a  form 
as  a  sonnet  may  be  a  one-sentenced  affair  with 
this  poet." 

"  Mr.  Clapp  is  a  little  startlingly  neither  fish 
nor  fowl,  it  seems,  in  the  matter  of  form,"  I  joined 
in.  "  But  there  is  something  grim  and  resistless 
about  his  substance.  He  is  what  I  call  a  poet 
of  heavy  encounters  with  life.  He  sings  of  the 
'  unutterable  strength  of  sky  and  sea,'  and  of  a 
'  tide-eaten  crag  in  obdurate  agonies,'  that  '  re- 
absorbs its  foam  of  frantic  hands ! '  His  imagina- 
tion is  true,  but  ungovernable  at  times  —  like 
one's  appetite  rather  than  one's  temper." 

"  Whatever  it  is  like,"  Psyche  exclaimed  with 
conviction,  "  it  is  unlike  any  expression  I  could 
accept,  to  speak  of  feeling  a  '  stealthy  sickness  in 
these  flowers.'     The  line  occurs  in  a  poem  called 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      193 

'  Mist,'  which  shows,  I  believe,  Mr.  Clapp  has  a 
sympathy  —  maybe  unconscious  —  with  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  eighteen-nineties  in  English  poetry." 
"  He's  just  a  good  masculine  poet,  with  a  clear- 
seeing  eye,  and  little  bother  about  illusions,"  com- 
mented Cassandra.  "  I  am  going  to  read  this 
poem  '  Cleared,'  which  is  a  good  corrective  against 
the  sentimentalizing  of  reality.  You  don't  know 
just  what  it  is,  but  something  stands  naked  in 
the  lines.  It  is  the  spirit  of  nature  declaring  it- 
self in  the  elements.     Here  it  is,"  and  she  read : 

"  Exquisite  indwelling  cry  of  rain 
out  on  these  white  and  marching  infinite 
wave-armies     staggering     shoreward     through     the 

night ! 
The  unwitherable  strength  of  sky  and  sea 
wavers  and  desolate  and  bodiless, 
heedless  and  indecipherably  driven 
under  the  exquisite  bleak  cry  of  rain, 
convulses  at  the  unshaken  foot  of  this 
tide-eaten  crag  in  obdurate  agonies 
and  reabsorbs  its  foam  of  frantic  hands. 
Now  scarce  a  sigh  to  the  long  foamless  beach 
clings,  a  trailing  mist  of  ghostly  light 
clutches  at  darkness  as  wind-weary  birds 
clutch  at  the  smooth  face  of  a  basalt  crag. 
Tortuous  grey  stricken  sobbing  of  the  rain ! 
My  mind  precipitate  in  the  chill  of  thought 
sweeps  over,  as  your  cry  upon  the  sea, 
the  mutinous  retreat  of  refluent  life, 
till  transubstantiate  on  the  baffled  tide, 
a  phantom  in  the  foam-frail  prism  of  time, 
it  reassumes  identity  and  leans. 


194      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

a  tower  of  shuddering  sails  through  bursting  spray, 

far  seaward  into  vastness  and  the  night, 

with  swung  blurred  lights  that  gleam  and  reel  and 

fade 
to  me  who  turn  across  the  unearthly  sands 
to  let  my  alien  body  move  again 
among  the  patterned  granite  streets  and  past 
the  unsearchable  windows  of  the  lives  of  men." 

"  Yes,  that  is  very  good,"  I  said ;  "  stands  out 
hard  and  clear.  A  picture  from  which  all  mys- 
tery has  been  taken,  and  yet  it  could  not  be 
painted  unless  one  recognized  the  mystery  in  it." 

"  There  is  sight  rather  than  insight,  in  the 
poem,  you  mean.''"  Jason  interpreted. 

"  Perhaps,"  I  admitted.  "  Certainly  there  is 
no  pathway  to  the  edge  of  the  world,  there  is  a 
frame  around  what  the  eye  takes  in;  inside  of  the 
frame  every  detail  is  magnified  by  the  clear,  sharp 
strokes  of  an  observing  mind,  outside  of  the  frame 
is  a  sweep  of  infinity.  In  those  depths  beyond  the 
actual,  shut  from  the  piercing  gaze  of  eyes  that 
have  not  a  kind  of  second  imaginative  sight,  lie 
the  bournes  towards  which  the  spirit  reaches  in 
its  most  inspired  moments.  Certain  poets  have 
a  continual  nostalgia  for  those  bournes.  They 
lie  somewhere  at  the  edge  of  the  world  where  you 
look  over  into  a  cosmos  of  glittering  dreams." 

"  At  least  that  is  the  difference  you  find " 
asked  Psyche,  "  between  Mr.  Clapp's  poems  and 
Miss  Caroline  Stern's .''  The  work  of  both  has  a 
touch  of  the  elemental ;  but  Mr.  Clapp  is  com- 
pressive, and  Miss  Stern  expansive,  which  I  sup- 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      195 

pose  justifies  her  title  '  At  the  Edge  of  the 
World.'  " 

"  Some  such  difference,  surely,"  I  assented. 
"  Miss  Stern's  title  has  a  mystical  inference.  Her 
mood  is  an  outreaching  one;  her  spirit  expansive. 
Now  she  need  not  deal  in  themes  of  dimensional 
space  to  prove  the  exercise  of  her  imagination. 
It  is  the  '  heaven  in  the  grain  of  sand  '  idea  of 
Blake,  which  comes  more  nearly  to  proving  her 
title." 

"  What  does  one  care  about  definitions,"  said 
Cassandra,  "  when  presented  with  such  a  simple 
and  appealing  croon  as  this  '  Mammy-Lore,'  I  am 
going  to  read.''  "     And  we  listened  to: 

"  Once  Mammy  took  me  out  to  walk. 
I  heard  a  partridge  in  the  grass. 
I  never  knew  a  bird  could  talk 
So  plain;  and  now  we  never  pass 
But  he  calls  to  us  as  we  walk  — 
And  Mammy  says,  '  It's  like  his  sass.' 

"For  Mammy  says  lie  says: 
'  Boh,  Boh,  White, 
Peas  all  right! 
Won't  he  home  he  fore  Saturday  night!  ' 

"  Down  in  the  pasture  pond  the  frogs. 
Says  Mammy,  are  like  naughty  boys. 
At  night  they  hop  on  two  old  logs. 
And  there  they  make  a  mighty  noise. 
Little  frogs  and  great  big  frogs. 
Just  quarreling  like  boys. 


196      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Mammy  says  the  little  frogs  say  : 
'  Go-back!  go-back!  go-back!  * 
But  the  big  frogs  say, 
'Knee-deep,  knee-deep,  knee-deep!  * 

"  One  time  I  heard  a  hoot  owl  cry. 
'Twas  in  the  middle  of  the  night: 
The  wind  sang,  '  By-lo,  hush-a-by.' 
I  was  not  scared  —  the  moon  was  bright. 
And  Mammy  came  —  I  did  not  cry. 
But  Mammy  thought  I  might. 

"  And  Mammy  told  me  what  the  owl  said.     She  says 
he  says: 
'  I  cook  for  my  wife,  er  who  cooks  fer  you-u-all? 
I  cook  for  my  wife,  er  who  cooks  for  you-u-all?  * 

"  The  old-fashioned  virtues  of  poetry,"  Cas- 
sandra commented  after  reading  the  poem,  "  is 
what  Miss  Stern  gives  us  with  a  wholesome  human 
interest.  In  poems  like  '  Narcissus,'  and  '  Youth,' 
there  is  a  lyrical  touch,  the  best  quality  that  the 
art  of  poetry  can  have.  The  habit  of  the  ad- 
vanced modernist  is  to  scratch  such  expressions 
as  '  beaded  wine,'  *  faerie  folk,'  and  to  damn  a 
cliche  like  *  wist,'  but  I  am  sure  they  do  not  blem- 
ish either  the  fervor  or  grace  of  a  lyric  like  this 
on  '  Youth  ' : 

"  My  body  held  a  merry  guest 

A  many  years  ago. 
He  made  of  it  a  songful  nest 

A  many  years  ago. 
He  sang  through  storm,  he  sang  through  shine : 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES     197 

His  blood  was  quick  as  beaded  wine, 
His  speech  was  like  a  wild  rose  vine, 
A  many  years  ago. 

"  The  sad  folk  came  from  far  and  near 

A  many  years  ago. 
His  wilful  caroling  to  hear, 

A  many  years  ago. 
His  mouth  an  April  sun  had  kist; 
He  was  of  faerie  folk,  they  wist. 
He  vanished  like  the  morning  mist 

A  many  years  ago." 

Jason  was  very  appreciative  of  the  lyric  Cassan- 
dra read,  and  of  Miss  Stern's  volume  as  a  whole. 
"  She  has  distinction  of  the  old-fashioned  kind,"  he 
echoed  Cassandra.  "  The  two-act  poetic  play 
'  The  Queen  Decides,'  which  closes  her  volume,  has 
some  very  fine  touches  of  real  power  and  loveliness, 
and  warrants  a  future  of  notable  achievement  for 
the  poet.'** 

"  Whatever  that  future,"  I  declared,  "  Miss 
Stern's  art  shall  never  lose  its  nostalgic  quality." 

"  I  take  but  little  account  of  that  mood  in  her 
verse,"  said  Jason.  "  Much  as  I  admire  her 
work,  she  doesn't  seem  to  me  ever  to  have  had  a 
home  of  the  spirit  from  which  she  is  exiled  and 
longs  to  return.  Unless  it  is  that  bourne  in  mys- 
tery which  all  poets  have  a  consciousness  of  once 
having  dwelt  in,  and  spend  their  mortal  lives  try- 
ing to  locate  through  dreams,  growing  melan- 
choly when  they  can't  reach  it.  The  joyousness 
in    the   art    of    a    Crashaw,    a    Blake,    a    Francis 


198      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Thompson  is  that  they  occasionally  do  return 
from  the  exile  of  this  world  to  the  home  of  their 
eternal  births.  To  these  poets  the  heavens  are 
not  a  dome,  but  a  floor  paved  with  stars,  on  which 
the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  planets  are  huge 
jars  holding  red  and  white  wine,  to  refresh  the 
thirsty  souls  of  pilgrim-poets  wandering  over  that 
glittering  pathway  searching  for  the  gate  of 
heaven." 

"  You  may  be  right,  Jason,"  I  said,  "  about 
Miss  Stern's  nostalgic  quality,  and  your  beauti- 
ful way  of  expressing  the  nostalgic  mystery  in  the 
poetic  temperament,  especially  the  character  of 
it  in  such  poets  as  Crashaw,  Blake  and  Francis 
Thompson,  is  true.  But  there  is  a  more  human 
embodiment  of  it  which  poets  also  express ;  a  mood 
more  people  understand  than  they  understand  the 
starry  heavens  as  an  immense  landscape  in  the 
deeps  of  which  is  hidden  the  gates  of.:,  the  celes- 
tial abode.  The  kind  I  mean  Mr.  stork  gives 
us  in  his  narrative  of  Narragansett  Bay  folk. 
His  hero  has  a  true  nostalgia  of  bournes ;  the 
horizons  of  the  sea  call  him  insistently  in  boyhood, 
and  his  youth  and  manhood  answer  the  call  with 
action  and  adventure.  Then  the  call  comes  from 
the  other  direction ;  in  foreign  ports  and  alien 
lands  homesickness  overtakes  the  wanderer,  and 
the  ancestral  farm  beside  the  broad  bay  of  Rhode 
Island  pulls  and  pulls  upon  his  memory  until  he 
goes  back  to  live  out  his  days  in  the  cradle  of  his 
youthful  dreams." 

"  That   is   just   what    romantic    New   England 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      199 

does  for  her  children,"  exclaimed  Psyche  with  a 
hint  of  pride  in  her  voice. 

"  You  can't  make  the  West  or  the  South  beheve 
that  romance  was  founded  on  Plymouth  Rock," 
declared  Jason.  "  The  only  thing  that  hard  nest 
of  colonization  hatched  were  ideas  and  egotism. 
The  first  was  frozen  and  the  second  pickled.  Ro- 
mance with  a  debonair  air  sailed  into  Jamestown, 
Virginia,  and  crossed  the  Cumber^nd  Mountains 
into  the  wilderness ;  and  there  like  a  god  it  re- 
produced its  own  likeness,  inspiring  another  epoch 
of  romancing  which  cut  through  the  Oregon  trail 
to  the  Pacific  Ocean." 

"  You  are  quite  wrong,"  Psyche  retorted  ve- 
hemently. "  The  Cavaliers  of  Jamestown  brought 
over  the  manners  of  the  Jacobean  court,  its  frivo- 
lous and  audacious  spirit,  but  it  was  neither  frivo- 
lous nor  audacious  enough  to  penetrate  into  the 
wilderness ;  the  transported  prisoners  did  that,  pro- 
ducing that  pioneer  class  who  opened  up  a  new  path 
for  civilisation.  But  New  England  is  romantic  in 
its  history,  because  it  was  founded  on  passion. 
That  passion  may  have  been  as  hard  as  the  rock 
upon  which  the  Pilgrims  landed,  but  when  the  sun 
of  liberty  shone  upon  it,  it  glistened  with  an  ideal- 
ism which  is  to-day  the  foundation  of  American 
character.  Puritanism  did  rebuke  beauty,  it  did 
cultivate  intolerance,  it  was  narrow  and  uncom- 
promising in  its  prejudices,  it  was  also  obstinate 
and  irrational  in  holding  to  its  theological  beliefs, 
and  was  unsympathetic  towards  all  points  of  view 
but  its   own  —  but  it  produced  romance  because 


200      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

driven  by  passion  into  every  one  of  these  traits. 
This  character  of  the  community  was  upset  by 
the  will  of  the  individual,  forced  by  that  same 
passion  which  opposed  it.  It  was  the  primitive 
instincts  of  human  nature  revolting  against  the 
moral  and  social  imposition  of  the  communal 
spirit.  The  result  was  ironic  comedy  and  tragedy 
in  New  England  life.  Puritanism  is  the  most 
romantic  thing  that  has  touched  the  American 
continent,"  Psyche  concluded  in  a  decisive  tone. 
"  I  agree  with  you,  Psyche,"  I  said.  "  But 
northern  New  England  has  been  chiefly  the  ro- 
mantic and  tragic  background  for  the  poet  and 
the  novelist.  When,  breathing  in  Boston,  you 
say  '  along  the  North  Shore,'  and  '  along  the 
South  Shore,'  if  you  are  speaking  to  someone  who 
knows  the  New  England  coast,  you  suggest  lo- 
calities that  have  for  your  hearer  disproportion- 
ate historical  memories  and  literary  associations. 
The  cause  is  obvious  and  yet  indefinable.  On  the 
north  is  Salem,  Gloucester,  Cape  Ann,  and  the 
Maine  coast  up  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy ;  on  the  south 
is  Plymouth,  Provincetown  and  Cape  Cod,  New 
Bedford,  Newport,  and  Narragansett  Bay  open- 
ing on  the  ocean  where  Block  Island  gleams  in  its 
face,  thirty  miles  away,  and  the  rough  passage  off 
Point  Judith  leads  into  the  Sound  between  Long 
Island  and  the  Connecticut  shores.  Along  no 
other  stretch  of  coast-line  in  America  has  history 
dotted  so  many  bays  and  inlets  and  rivers,  towns 
and  cities,  which  romance,  legend  and  tradition 
have  made  so  rich  through  three  centuries  of  dis- 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES     201 

covery  and  settlement,  of  growth  and  busy  prog- 
ress. All  that  has  made  this  coast-line  from  its 
extreme  northern  end  in  Maine  to  Long  Island 
Sound  in  the  south,  rich  in  character  and  tradi- 
tion, has  swept  inland  over  the  States  and  through 
the  towns  and  villages,  over  the  fields  and  through 
the  woods,  into  the  great  range  of  mountains  in 
the  north  and  the  lowlands  of  Rhode  Island  and 
Connecticut.  Three  things  have  combined  to 
make  the  inhabitants  of  this  region  homogeneous 
in  character ;  the  sea,  Puritanism,  and  the  ideal 
of  political  liberty.  The  rivers  that  thread  these 
States  have  kept  the  farms  and  the  towns  under 
the  spell  of  the  sea ;  and  the  town  meeting,  the 
perfect  type  of  democratic  government,  has  every- 
where leavened  the  encroachment  of  corruption 
which  has  stolen  into  the  rule  of  the  large  cities. 
"  North  of  Boston  has  been  the  rich  quarry," 
I  continued,  "  of  the  poet  and  novelist.  South 
of  the  city  along  the  coast  to  Long  Island  Sound, 
traditions  and  associations  and  legends  have  also 
been  rich,  if  not  so  appealing  to  the  imaginative 
mind.  There  is  now  a  colony  on  Cape  Cod  which 
is  turning  that  region  into  literature.  Some  years 
ago  at  Scituate,  a  group  of  poets  and  writers 
drew  inspiration  from  the  sea ;  among  them  Bliss 
Carman,  who  wrote  some  very  fine  things  there. 
But  there  are  two  places  along  the  southern  shore 
that  seem  never  to  have  been  finally  embodied  into 
the  literature  of  the  New  England  coast:  Ply- 
mouth, with  its  historical  and  traditional  asso- 
ciations   of    the    landing    and    settlement    of    the 


202      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Pilgrims,  and  the  Narragansett  Bay  region. 
Jane  G.  Austen  wrote  some  novels  of  a  fine  ro- 
mantic strain  and  historical  importance  of  the 
Plymouth  settlement  and  the  subsequent  colonial 
growth,  and  though  once  quite  popular,  they 
seem  to  be  forgotten  now.  A  number  of  local 
poets  have  celebrated  the  picturesque  waters  of 
Narragansett  Bay  and  its  environs,  rehearsing 
the  many  Indian  legends  that  are  common  to  both 
its  banks.  The  material  there  is  very  rich  and 
awaits  the  Rhode  Island  poet  to  shape  it." 

"  Suppose  you  go  on  and  tell  us  what  Mr. 
Stork  in  his  narrative  poem  '  Sea  and  Bay  '  has 
done  for  the  region,"  suggested  Jason.  Psyche 
and  Cassandra  confirmed  the  suggestion  as  a  good 
one.  I  am  afraid  the  sultriness  of  the  summer 
afternoon  had  got  into  their  blood.  The  brook 
ran  drowsily  a  few  feet  away,  and  the  low  insist- 
ent murmur  of  its  current  as  it  washed  over  a 
little  fall  at  the  bend,  put  them  into  a  listening 
mood.  Jason  was  already  stretched  at  full  length 
upon  the  warm,  fragrant  floor  of  pine  needles 
gazing  through  half-shut  eyes  into  the  shadowy 
branches  of  the  trees  above.  Psyche  and  Cassan- 
dra settled  themselves  more  comfortably  on  the 
ground  and  prepared  to  listen ;  there  was  in  all 
three  a  relaxation  that  threatened  to  be  entirely 
uncritical  and  accepting. 

"  There  is  such  an  atmosphere  of  determination 
in  your  comfort,"  I  addressed  the  three  of  them, 
"  that  I  see  no  way  of  escape.  So  I  shall  just 
ramble   on   about   Mr.    Stork's   poem,   reciting   a 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES     203 

good  deal  of  what  you  already  know,  and  slipping 
in  an  opinion  now  and  then,  and  quoting  lines  to 
illustrate  the  story. 

"  When  I  said  that  the  environs  of  Narragan- 
sett  Bay  awaited  the  Rhode  Island  poets  to  put 
them  into  song,  I  did  not  mean  to  depreciate  Mr. 
Stork's  attempt  in  '  Sea  and  Bay.'  There  is  so 
much  poetic  material  in  the  history  and  tradition 
of  the  region  that  a  lifetime  of  effort  cannot  ex- 
haust it.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Stork  has  put 
the  bay-folk  of  Rhode  Island  into  a  narrative 
poem  that  has  a  very  telling  significance.  He 
has  done  in  a  measure  for  the  southern  part  of 
New  England  what  a  great  many  poets  have  done 
for  the  northern  part.  He  has  done  it  individu- 
ally, and  without  leaning  in  any  sense  upon  the 
success  or  achievements  of  his  contemporaries  of 
the  north.  For  all  its  compactness  of  spirit, 
there  is  a  diversity  in  the  motive  and  character  of 
New  England  life,  and  all  a  poet  needs  is  the 
imaginative  power  to  reveal  it.  What  Mr.  Stork 
reveals  in  this  long  narrative  is  the  influence  of 
the  bay  and  sea  upon  a  man's  life.  His  hero, 
Alden  Carr  —  a  good  Rhode  Island  name,  by  the 
way  —  is  drawn  from  the  farm  of  his  fathers  by 
the  spell  of  the  bay,  and  the  bay  awakes  in  him  a 
hunger  for  the  sea.  A  chance  voyage  to  the  Grand 
Banks  determines  his  fate.  Then  comes  the  sea- 
life,  through  which  he  changes  from  the  silent, 
moody  youth,  to  a  man  of  the  world.  His  ex- 
ploit is  not  only  a  test  of  his  physical  endurance, 
but    also    of   his    moral    character.     He    returns. 


204      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

with  his  charming  French  wife,  to  a  domestic  life 
by  the  bay,  becomes  an  inspector  of  lighthouses, 
and  lives  his  days  a  sea-memoried  man  in  thought 
and  mood, 

"  This  is  the  merest  outline  of  the  poet's  story. 
Filled  in  with  the  details  it  makes  a  narrative  that 
carries  one  along  with  deep  interest.  There  is 
the  picture  of  the  farm  and  the  stem  mother  to 
whom  duty  towards  her  children  took  the  place 
of  love  in  the  daily  routine  of  existence.  She 
wished  Alden,  her  eldest  boy,  to  be  a  farmer,  while 
in  his  heart  was  a  hunger  for  the  sea ;  this  es- 
tranged mother  and  son.  The  account  of  the 
lad's  progress  at  school  contains  some  sombre 
strokes,  relieved  only  by  the  bright  invasion  into 
his  moodiness  of  the  girl  Hilda  who  was  sympa- 
thetic and  kindly  while  all  the  other  boys  and  girls 
either  ridiculed  or  shunned  him.  His  disposition 
was  not  altogether  pleasant  in  these  youthful 
years.  What  it  might  have  hardened  into  is  easy 
to  guess  had  not  a  strong  influence  of  idealistic 
tendency  crossed  his  life  at  this  time.  This  in- 
fluence was  exercised  by  the  artist  Brinton,  who 
had  come  to  board  during  the  summer  at  his 
mother's  house.  Young  Alden  went  into  the  fields 
carrying  the  apparatus  of  the  artist  and  watched 
him  paint.  While  he  painted  the  man  opened  the 
boy's  mind  to  many  truths  and  realities,  to  the 
ideals  and  inspiration  of  the  spirit,  and  the  beau- 
ties of  nature.  Brinton  loved  to  talk,  and  he 
found  in  Alden  a  ready  and  eager  listener.  The 
response  of  the  young  mind  was  quick  to  sugges- 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      205 

tions,  and  once  when  the  boy  thought  he  had  de- 
tected a  flaw  in  the  man's  opinion  about  painting 
nature,  he  asked, 

"  '  If  photographs  weren't  better  than  his  art. 
Since  they  put  all  in  .   .  .' 

the  artist  replied  — 

Put  in  all  of  what? 
Why,  all  the  trees  and  clouds  and  waves,  you  say. 
But  does  that  give  you  Nature  ?     No,  no  more 
Than  the  town  census  gives  you  breathing  men. 
Dry  facts  aren't  Nature;  Nature  is  a  thrill, 
A  bounding  in  the  blood.     Leave  out  man's  heart 
And  there  is  no  Nature,  only  sticks  and  stones. 
Nature  is  just  tlie  wide  deep  soul  of  things 
That  speaks  to  all  of  us,  giving  each  no  more 
Than  he  can  comprehend.     Those  men  who  paint 
Just  rocks  and  trees  do  worse  than  photographs. 
But  he  who  paints  the  harmony  and  joy 
Which  Nature's  voice  awakens  in  his  soul 
Brings,  poet-like,  new  beauty  down  to  earth. 
As  no  man's  soul  is  big  enough  to  grasp 
The  whole  of  Nature,  so  in  some  degree 
The  greatest  painters   fail. —  Why,  bless  the  boy ! 
His  brow's  as  wrinkled  as  a  millionaire's. 
His  eyes  are  bulging  and  his  mouth  agape. 
Don't  try  to  gulp  all  Emerson  at  once. 
Sonny,  but  give  me  a  hand  here  with  my  traps 
Or  else  we  shan't  be  home  by  supper  time.' 

"  Under  this  man's  guidance  the  boy  of  the  bay 
when  he  became  the  man  of  the  sea,  was  to  ex- 
plore Paris  and  Italy.  Into  his  life  before  this 
were  to  come  many  trials  and  tests  of  character. 


206      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

The  episode  of  the  West  Indian  hurricane  was  one 
of  the  severest.  There  came  to  the  surface  then 
a  great  deal  that  was  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the 
man's  being.  I  want  to  read  this  passage  de- 
scriptive of  the  storm  and  the  man : 

"  Sometimes  amid  the  storm  I  heard  a  voice 
That  penetrated  to  my  soul;  a  voice, 
Persistent  through  the  tremor  of  the  winds 
And  deeper  than  the  crashing  of  the  waves, 
Wliich  gave  me  confidence.     'Twas  not  the  voice 
Of  reason,  which  had  taught  me  to  despair. 
The  tones  which  then  I  heard  were  for  the  ear 
Of  faith  alone,  and  dimly  as  they  spoke, 
They  told  me  that  my  life  was  in  His  care 
Who  had  made  the  sea  and  held  it  in  His  hand. 
Once  in  especial  did  I  feel  that  faith. 
In  a  West  Indian  hurricane:  —  waves  mast-high 
And  purplish  black  beneath  a  sky  which  hung 
Like  the  Great  Terror,  while  a  ghastly  light 
Shone  through,  as  if  the  malice  of  his  eyes 
Glared  out  beneath  the  menace  of  his  frown. 
Though  gale  and  billow  rushed  at  his  command, 
Yet  he,  beholding  with  Satanic  pride, 
Forebore  to  turn  his  Nero  thumb  and  give 
The  signal  to  destroy  us.     We  meanwhile 
Fought  for  two  days  to  meet  the  storm  head-on, 
Our  small  ship  lurching  down  the  ocean  hills 
As  to  some  dread  abyss,  then  pausing,  rising 
With  slow  heat-sickening  eifort,  throwing  tons 
Of  foamless  water  from  her  forward  deck, 
To  climb  another  hill  with  drunken  heave 
And  topple  helpless  downward.     As  her  bow 
Thus  overhung,  a  smaller  wave  would  smite 
Like  a  skilled  boxer's  fist  beneath  the  chin. 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES     207 

Shattering  the  strength.     A  sidewise  blow   would 

drive 
Us  bulwarks  under,  pushing  ever  down, 
Till  scarcely  we  could  stagger  up  again. 
Within  the  ship  'twas  dark  as  doom,  and  screams 
Of  women  rang  like  shrieks  of  tortured  souls. 
On  the  third  day  the  rudder  was  torn  off. 
The  engine  stalled,  the  steel  plates  wrenched  and 

bent 
Till  water  poured  in  through  a  score  of  seams. 
The  wind  was  even  stronger  than  before. 
The  sky  more  angry  and  the  waves  more  huge. 
No  one  had  slept,  our  food  was  running  short. 
And  we  were  rolling  crippled  in  the  trough 
Of  waves  so  steep  we  hardly  saw  the  sky 
Between  them.     Then  at  last  the  captain  paused 
From  fighting,  and  his  tense-drawn  face  relaxed. 
(I  was  alone  with  him  in  the  pilot  house.) 
His  solemn  gentle  look  was  strange  to  me 
Amid  such  pressing  peril,  till  he  spoke: 
'  Carr,  under  God,  we've  done  the  best  we  could. 
We'll  leave  it  to  His  will,  perhaps  He  means 
To  show  how  vain  our  efforts  are  and  make 
Us  trust  in  Him  entirely. —     Well,  I  do. 
And  if  we  sink  next  minute,  as  we  may, 
I'll  never  think  but  He  ordained  it  so. 
And  yet  His  Hand  might  save  us  even  now.' 
I  looked  toward  heaven  as  the  vessel  rose, 
And  there  above  the  wave's  long  crest,  I  saw 
A  blue  rift  open  in  the  pall  of  cloud, 
And  thin  pure  rays  of  sunlight  spilling  through. 
Then  the  Great  Terror  trembled,  and  the  glare 
Faded  within  his  eyes,  his  form  dislimned, 
He  shrank  away  before  the  smile  of  God. — 
That  night  the  tempest  fell  and  we  were  saved. 


208      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  There   was   God's   mercy.     Oftener   still    His 
Love 
Would  be  made  visible,  when,  sunset-blest. 
My  gaze  would  drift  across  the  glimmering  floor, 
inimitably  lovely,  till  it  reached 
And  rested  on  the  glowing  citadels 
Of  rare  celestial  promise,  crowned  with  light 
Eternal;  for  although  the  sun  would  sink. 
My  soul  would  take  such  living  hues  of  joy 
That  memory's  brush  might  use  them  once  again 
To  paint  the  scene  in  hours  when  prisoning  skies 
Would  shroud  the  day  with  gloom. 

"  These  greater  times 
Of  exaltation  and  of  insight  came 
But  seldom  with  their  high  transcendent  power; 
Not  often  was  it  granted  me  to  read 
The  word  of  God  (I  mean  the  world)  with  faith 
So  happy.     No,  nor  could  I  always  feel 
The  Grecian  beauty  or  Teutonic  strength 
Reflected  from  the  myths  I  used  to  read 
In  school-boy  days.     Most  of  the  time  it  seemed 
The  ocean  was  a  well-established  friend, 
Breathing  a  cheerful,  boisterous  comradeship. 
Jostling  and  tussling  as  we  romped  along 
To  try  my  strength  and  temper,  keep  me  flt 
In  mind  and  muscle. 

"  Through  all  his  roving  over  the  earth  there 
was  always  in  Carr's  mind  the  image  of  his 
friendly  school-mate  Hilda.  He  never  seemed  to 
have  a  doubt  that  she  was  his,  that  she  waited 
there  in  the  little  home  by  the  bay  for  him  to  come 
like  some  modern  knight  from  his  adventures,  to 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      209 

claim  her  hand  with  a  romantic  flourish.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  his  silence  might  affect 
her  devotion,  that  neglect  might  easily  be  an  as- 
surance of  his  entire  forgetfulness  of  her.  He 
gave  her  no  credit  for  the  pride  which  all  women 
possess,  and  which  when  injured  by  the  indiffer- 
ent lover  drives  the  woman  into  the  importunious 
arms  of  another  man.  It  came  to  this  sea-rover 
that  Hilda  was  the  woman  that  he  wanted  more 
than  he  wanted  anything  in  the  world,  and  with 
characteristic  impulsiveness  he  decided  to  return 
home  and  make  her  his  wife.  But  the  news  of 
her  engagement  to  his  brother  Phil  met  him  on 
the  way.  This  completely  upset  him.  Without 
the  thought  of  her  as  the  dearest  possession  of 
the  days  to  come,  he  lost  that  moral  equilibrium 
which  had  saved  him  from  the  numerous  pitfalls 
in  the  pathways  along  which  his  life  was  cast. 
Now  for  a  while  he  turns  to  the  way  of  the  world 
with  a  reckless  abandon:  the  evils  of  life  were 
tasted.  In  the  course  of  time  he  is  taken  with  a 
dangerous  fever  and  is  put  off  his  ship  in  France. 
With  his  recovery  comes  also  a  saner  view  of 
things,  a  complete  and  unregretful  acquiescence 
towards  the  loss  of  Hilda.  A  deeper,  truer,  influ- 
ence is  Seraphine,  the  daughter  of  his  doctor,  and 
with  her  he  falls  rapturously  in  love.  The  poet 
makes  a  lovely  and  exquisite  idyl  of  this  affair. 
Carr  marries  and  takes  this  bright  and  charming 
girl  home  among  the  bay-folk  to  live.  The  con- 
trast which  the  poet  draws  between  Seraphine's 
nature  and  the  nature  of  her  husband's  relatives 


210      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

and  neighbors,  is  full  of  pathetic  and  appealing 
touches.  But  there,  finally,  the  man  of  the  sea 
settles  down  under  the  influence  of  the  bay,  lives 
his  gentle,  domestic  life,  attends  to  his  duties  of 
the   hghthouses,   and   watches   his    children   grow 

up." 

"  There's  a  capable  story  in  that,"  Jason  sud- 
denly shot  from  the  ground.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
poetry  return  to  a  treatment  of  common  experi- 
ence. Telling  us  something  about  people  and 
the  lives  they  live  instead  of  merely  showing  us 
states  of  being." 

"  I  have  often  wondered  which  of  the  two  func- 
tions of  the  poet  was  the  more  important  to  man- 
kind: his   function   as   a   teller  or   as  a  revealer. 
It  is  very  easy   to  find  the  same  significance  in 
both  these  terms.     As  a  teller,  of  course,  the  poet 
reveals,  but  as  a  revealer  he  is  not  necessarily  a 
teller  of  events.     The  teller  will  always  find  lis- 
teners, man  is  prone  to  heed  a  chronicle  or  a  gos- 
sip, whichever  the  tale  may  be ;  but  to  make  men 
see  what  you  have  to  show  is  a  much  more  diffi- 
cult matter.     Many  a  poet  like  John  in  Patmos 
have   apocalyptic  visions,  but   in   the   Revelation 
men   do   not   see  the  '  seven   angels   of  the   seven 
churches,'  nor  the  '  seven  golden  candlesticks,'  nor 
the  '  twelve  foundations  '  of  the  wall  of  the  Holy 
City,  that  *  were  garnished  with   all  manner  of 
precious    stones,'    jasper,    sapphire,    chalcedony, 
emerald,     sardonyx,     sardius,     chrysolite,     beryl, 
topaz,  chrysoprasus,  jacinth  and  amethyst.     The 
apocalyptic  visions  of  John  is  the  diary  of  a  her- 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES      211 

mit,  it  has  a  human  interest  as  a  personal  expe- 
rience, and  is  therefore  a  story,  that  is  why  we 
see  the  New  Jerusalem.  Now  all  the  great  poets 
when  they  wanted  us  to  see  life  told  us  a  great 
story :  Homer  in  '  The  Odyssey,'  Dante  in  '  The 
Divine  Comedy,'  Milton  in  '  Paradise  Lost,'  Keats 
in  '  Endymion,'  Tennyson  in  '  The  Idyls  of  the 
King,'  Browning  in  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,' 
and  Morris  in  '  The  Earthly  Paradise.'  Lyrical 
poetry  is  inadequate  to  do  this  —  show  us  life 
through  emotional  and  subjective  revelations;  so 
the  narrative  art  came  into  practice  again,  a  mir- 
ror large  enough  to  reflect  the  broad  life  of  man." 

"  Read  us  that  song  about  '  Pedro's  Plunge,'  " 
requested  Jason.  "  Mr.  Stork's  has  lyric  as  well 
as  narrative  ability,  I  think." 

"  Yes,"  I  consented ;  "  that  can  well  close  my 
remarks  about  this  interesting  poem."  And  I 
read : 

"  The  sky  was  a  dazzling  turquoise, 
The  sea  was  an  amethyst, 
And  the  palm-fringed  shore  of  a  Cuban  bay 
By  the  westering  light  was  kissed, — 

"  When  a  steamboat  came  to  anchor 
In  the  curve  of  the  hot  white  sand, 
And  a  score  of  native  boats  put  out. 
By  swarthy  half-breeds  manned. 

"  Oh,  some  they  would  sell  their  luscious  fruit. 
And  some  they  would  sing  and  play. 
And  some  would  dive  for  a  copper  coin 
Flung  into  the  waveless  bay. 


212      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  But  one  like  a  bronze  Greek  statue. 
Disdaining  so  mean  a  prize, 
Gazed  up  at  a  girl  by  the  railing, 
With  humble  passionate  eyes. 

"  Then  the  calm  of  the  scene  was  broken 
By  a  shout  from  a  dozen  throats : 
'  Shark !  shark !  '  and  the  splashing  swimmers 
Were  tumbled  into  the  boats. 

"  The  girl  looked  out  at  the  water. 
No  shark  did  her  gaze  discern. 
She  looked  at  the  eager  Pedro 
And  saw  his  dark  eyes  burn. 

"  She  held  out  a  bright  gold  sovereign 
With  a  gesture  of  proud  command 
And  tlirew  it  out  from  the  vessel 

With  a  toss  of  her  slim  white  hand. 

"  The  blood  of  his  Spanish  fathers 
Still  pulsed  in  him  bold  and  hot. 
What  is  death  for  the  smile  of  a  woman? 
And  he  dived  like  a  plunging  shot. — 

"  He  dived,  and  the  winking  gold-piece 
Was  clutched  in  his  firm  brown  fist, 
And  he  turned  to  strike  for  the  surface 
With  a  sudden,  desperate  twist. 

"  The  beautiful  girl  applauded 

And  leaned  from  her  vantage-place 
As  he  rose,  but  she  saw  no  pleasure 
In  the  look  of  his  set  sad  face. 


THE  NOSTALGIA  OF  BOURNES     213 

"  The  water  was  cut  between  them 
By  a  fin  and  a  churning  tail, 
A  streak  of  white  gleamed  deadly  bright, — 
The  girl  shrank  back  from  the  rail. 

"  That  instant  the  great  shark  got  him 
And  made  for  its  deep-sea  home, 
While  vainly  behind  them  shots  rang  out 
And  hissed  in  the  scarlet  foam." 

Psyche  shuddered  at  the  picture.  She  was  on 
her  feet,  and  we  followed  her  as  she  silently  led 
the  way  to  the  road. 


X 

"  THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE  " 

The  August  day  was  perfect.  It  is  a  kind  of 
perfection  that  no  other  month  in  the  year  can 
quite  match. 

"  A  neglected  month,"  said  Jason. 

The  heat,  I  think,  had  something  to  do  with 
his  sympathy.  He  expressed  it  in  the  tone  with 
which  one  says,  "  November  is  chill  and  driz- 
zling." He  was  forlorn  about  the  heat,  and 
missed,  I  believe,  the  wonderfully  pregnant  quie- 
tude of  August  days. 

"August,"  I  said,  "is  of  the  fulness  of  time. 
Time  triumphs  in  August.  It  is  rich,  ripe  and 
golden;  serene  and  melancholy.  All  the  other 
months  are  garrulous  in  one  form  or  another. 
August  is  full  of  the  sense  of  sound ;  its  rhythm  is 
silence." 

"  The  month  of  vacationists  and  the  fiction 
number  of  magazines,"  remarked  Jason  contemp- 
tuously. 

"  Your  mood  is  hollow,"  exclaimed  Cassandra, 
reprovingly. 

"  So  is  the  earth  and  sky  —  of  air !  "  Jason  re- 
joined. 

I  let  the  remark  pass  as  of  no  consequence.     A 

214 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE      215 

light  breath  of  air  came  through  the  trees  filled 
with  the  hot  scent  of  the  pines.  It  was  intoxi- 
catingly  sweet.  "  Did  you  catch  that?  "  I  asked 
Jason.  The  odor  worked  like  magic.  Listless- 
ness  took  a  visible  departure  from  his  being.  And 
he  began  to  quote ; 

"  There  were  four  apples  on  the  bough, 
Half  gold,  half  red,  that  one  might  know 
The  blood  was  ripe  inside  the  core ; 
The  color  of  the  leaves  was  more 
Like  stems  of  yellow  corn  that  grow 
Through  all  the  gold  June  meadow's  floor. 

"  The  warm  smell  of  the  fruit  was  good 
To  feed  on,  and  the  split  green  wood. 
With  all  its  bearded  lips  and  stains 
Of  mosses  in  the  cloven  veins, 
Most  pleasant,  if  one  lay  or  stood 
In  sunshine  or  in  happy  rains. 

"  There  were  four  apples  on  the  tree, 
Red  stained  through  gold,  that  all  might  see, 
The  sun  went  warm  from  core  to  rind; 
The  green  leaves  made  the  summer  blind 
In  that  soft  place  they  kept  for  me 
With  golden  apples  shut  behind. 

"  The  leaves  caught  gold  across  the  sun. 
And  where  the  bluest  air  begun. 
Thirsted  for  song  to  help  the  heat; 
As  I  to  feel  my  lady's  feet 
Draw  close  before  the  day  were  done: 
Both  lips  grew  dry  with  dreams  of  it. 


216      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  In  the  mute  August  afternoon 
They  trembled  to  some  undertune 
Of  music  in  the  silver  air: 
Great  pleasure  was  it  to  be  there 
Till  green  turned  duskier,  and  the  moon 
Colored  the  corn-sheaves  like  gold  hair. 

"  That  August  time  it  was  delight 
To  watch  the  red  moons  wane  to  white, 
'Twixt  gray  seamed  stems  of  apple-trees : 
A  sense  of  heavy  harmonies 
Grew  on  the  growth  of  patient  night, 
More  sweet  than  shapen  music  is. 

"  But  some  three  hours  before  the  moon 
The  air,  still  eager  from  the  noon. 
Flagged  after  heat,  not  wholly  dead; 
Against  the  stem  I  leant  my  head ; 
The  color  soothed  me  like  a  tune. 
Green  leaves  all  round  the  gold  and  red. 

"  I  lay  there  till  the  warm  smell  grew 
More  sharp,  when  flecks  of  yellow  dew 
Between  the  round  ripe  leaves  had  blurred 
The  rind  with  stain  and  wet:     I  heard 
A  wind  that  blew  and  breathed  and  blew, 
Too  weak  to  alter  its  one  word. 

"  The  wet  leaves  next  the  gentle  fruit 
Felt  smoother,  and  the  brown  tree-root 
Felt  the  mould  warmer:  I,  too,  felt 
(As  water  feels  the  slow  gold  melt 
Right  through  it  when  the  day  burns  mute) 
The  place  of  time  wherein  love  dwelt. 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE      217 

"  There  were  four  apples  on  the  tree. 
Gold  stained  on  red,  that  all  might  see 
The  sweet  blood  filled  them  to  the  core: 
The  color  of  her  hair  is  more 
Like  stems  of  fair  faint  gold,  that  be 
Mown  from  the  harvest's  middle-floor." 


ii 


Ah,  Swinburne ! "  exclaimed  Psyche,  when 
Jason  finished,  "  what  an  imcomparable  lutanist 
he  is.  '  Mute  August  afternoons,'  full  of  the 
'  undertune  of  music  in  the  silver  air.'  And  gold, 
gold,  in  everything  and  everywhere." 

"  Your  modern  critic, —  I  would  say  too,  your 
modern  poet  —  may  deny  to  Swinburne  substance 
and  sense,  but  one  glory  cannot  be  denied  him,  and 
that  is  the  glory  of  music,"  Jason  declared  with  as 
much  enthusiasm  as  the  heat  would  permit  him  to 
show.  "  Why,  music  is  the  very  garment  of 
dreams  —  so  much  of  our  modern  poetry  is  un- 
dressed," he  drawled  back  into  silence. 

I  could  not  let  what  I  regarded  as  a  challenge 
from  Jason  concerning  the  poetry  of  August,  pass, 
so  I  repeated  these  lines  by  Mr.  Howells: 

"  All  the  long  August  afternoon. 
The  little  drowsy  stream 
Whispers  a  melancholy  tune. 
As  if  it  dreamed  of  June 
And  whispered  in  its  dream. 

"  The  thistles  show  beyond  the  brook 
Dust  on  their  down  and  bloom, 
And  out  of  many  a  weed-grown  nook 
The  aster-flowers  look 

With  eyes  of  tender  gloom. 


218      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  The  silent  orchard  aisles  are  sweet 

With  smell  of  ripening  fruit. 
Through  the  sere  grass,  in  shy  retreat. 
Flutter,  at  coming  feet, 

The  robins  strange  and  mute. 

"  There  is  no  wind  to  stir  the  leaves. 

The  harsh  leaves  overhead; 
Only  the  querulous  cricket  grieves. 
And  shrilling  locust  weaves 

A  song  of  Summer  dead. 

"  Our  American  poet,"  I  said,  when  I  finished, 
"  agrees  with  the  English  poet  that  August  is  si- 
lent, mute,  and  yet  they  both  make  her  musical. 
But  it  is  the  music  of  quiescence,  the  subdual  of 
dreams  —  really,"  I  hazarded,  "  the  miracle  of 
birth." 

"  Birth !  "  declared  Jason,  with  surprise,  and 
shaking  off  his  enervation  with  a  vigorous  gesture 
of  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  birth,"  I  repeated.  "  '  There  is  a  bud- 
ding morrow  at  midnight,'  "  I  quoted  from  Keats. 
"  August  is,  in  a  sense,  the  midnight  of  the  j^ear. 
Not  December,  as  is  commonly  accepted,"  I  has- 
tened to  explain,  "  for  that  month  is  the  dawn  of 
the  year."  It  was  a  puzzling  fancy  to  my  com- 
panions. But  such  a  calendar  of  the  year  I  had 
believed  in  since  a  child.  Somehow  man  always 
seemed  very  dull  to  me  in  his  perception  of  the 
seasons.  He  lost  most  of  the  wonder  of  time  and 
change,  by  only  regarding  the  surface  of  experi- 
ence.    "  Time    and    change,"    I    repeated    aloud. 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE     219 

as  we  lolled  in  the  heat  under  our  pine,  "  as  Hen- 
ley sings  in  that  tribute  to  his  dead  friend  Steven- 
son —  they  drive  the  '  best  of  our  dreams  under,' 
they  '  have  looked  and  seen  us,'  but  we  are  too 
blind  to  see  them  in  their  subtle  and  mysterious 
treatment  of  material  things.  But  if  we  do 
see  them  at  work,  as  some  poets  do,  they  bring 
back  the  imperishable  glories  of  forgotten 
dreams." 

"  Oh,  dreams  are  all  right,"  murmured  Jason 
from  his  crumpled  form  on  the  ground.  "  Yes, 
dreams  are  all  right ;  only  this  confounded  heat 
won't  let  the  spirit  cage  them.  Thought  is  like 
a  wire  door  that  their  soft  white  breasts  push 
open  and  away  they  fly  to  some  cooler  spot.  I'll 
bet  Cassandra  is  full  of  them,  she  looks  so  cool. 
How  do  you  women  manage  it  when  the  tempera- 
ture is  around  a  hundred.''  " 

"  Here,  Jason,"  I  remonstrated,  "  we  won't  have 
that  nonsense  diverting  this  discussion  about  the 
Greeks." 

"  Well,  let  me  know  when  you  get  to  Aulis.  I 
hope  it  will  be  in  time  to  catch  that  favorable  wind 
that  is  to  take  Agamemnon  and  his  ships  to  Troy." 

"  Were  they  all  dreams,"  I  ignored  Jason's 
levity,  "  which  Euripides  gave  us  in  his  drama  ? 
The  invisible  turning  of  Iphigenia  into  a  deer 
at  Aulis  instead  of  making  her  Achilles'  bride,  to 
be  sacrificed  by  the  sword  in  the  hands  of  her 
father  in  the  hope  of  gaining  from  the  gods  a 
favorable  wind  to  take  his  ships  to  Troy.^*  And 
her  mysterious  reappearance  at  Tauris  to  perform 


220      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

the  sacrificial  rites  at  the  shrine  of  Artemis? 
Was  all  this  a  dream  of  wonder  in  the  Greek 
dramatist?  We  regard  these  things  as  symbols, 
all  these  Greek  myths.  But  were  they  not  the 
dreams  of  a  race  intoxicated  with  beauty?  Yes," 
I  repeated,  "  intoxicated  with  beauty.  And  in- 
toxicants we  are  becoming  by  the  gifts  of  a  few 
wise  modern  poets.  Mr.  Bynner,  Mr.  Hagedorn, 
and  Mr.  Ledoux  have  made  us  realize  lately  the 
need  of  these  old  dreams.  But  I  was  curious  to 
note  the  profoundly  modern  note  of  faith  with 
which  Mr.  Bynner  ends  his  rendering  of  *  Iphi- 
genia  ' : 

"  The  more  in  Thee  we  lose 

Our  lives,  the  more  we  find  our  life  in  Thee. 

The  poet  himself  italicized  these  lines,  as  if  to 
emphasize  the  theology  of  St.  Paul." 

"  Which  St.  Paul  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Jason. 
"  There  are  two,  you  know.  There  is  the  St.  Paul 
of  the  commentaries,  and  there  is  George  Moore's 
St.  Paul.  In  the  opinion  of  the  author  of  '  The 
Apostle,'  and  '  The  Brook  Kerith,'  there  was  little 
difference  between  God  and  Zeus.  He  makes  St. 
Paul  crystallize  the  fancy  of  a  pagan  god  into 
the  reality  of  a  Christian  Deity." 

"  Your  rambling  about  the  superfine  concep- 
tions of  George  Moore  is  impertinent,  to  say  the 
least,"  censured  Cassandra. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  a  man  can't  be  frivolous  with  a 
serious  idea  on  a  hot  day,  he  ought  to  seek  a 
cooler  place  than  the  present  company  of  ladies," 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE      221 

and  Jason  withdrew  into  the  silence  of  his  dis- 
comfiture. 

"  You  certainly  have  none  of  the  glory  that 
was  Greece  in  your  behavior,"  I  charged  Jason. 
"  I  half  believe  that  you  agree  with  some  modern 
poets  that  there  is  no  glory  left  in  the  memory 
of  Greece.  Tinsel,  remote,  and  shop-worn  are 
all  those  gods  and  heroes  that  men  once  believed 
in.  Thus  to  make  poetry  out  of  their  fabled  do- 
ings, and  to  give  them  character  in  story  and 
drama,  is  all  wrong,  because  they  have  no  relation 
to  the  common  people  of  to-day." 

"  The  glory  that  was  Greece  is  in  my  very 
blood,"  mocked  Jason.  "  It  is  so  very  warm  and 
fervent  at  this  moment." 

"  Mocker !  "  cried  Cassandra. 

"  All  the  figures  of  that  world  of  legendary 
Greece,  so  real  to  the  religious  fervor  of  the 
Greeks,  the  modern  world  has  inherited  as  the 
symbols  of  human  destiny  and  experience;  and 
their  significance,  after  thousands  of  years,  has 
not  lost  force  nor  meaning,"  I  went  on.  "  Pagan 
ideals,  as  Mr.  Lowes  Dickinson  has  shown  us,  and 
which  those  symbols  clothe,  are  the  ideals  which 
in  our  spiritual  nature  we  strive  most  to  real- 
ize. If  we  could  combine  the  ideals  of  paganism 
—  grace,  beauty  and  sanity  —  with  the  Christian 
virtues  of  faith,  hope  and  charity,  we  would  have 
a  perfect  humanity.  We  can  scarcely  reach  that 
perfection  towards  which  we  aspire  without  the 
wedding  of  these  high  qualities  of  paganism  and 
Christianity.     The  modernist  who  neglects  to  ap- 


222      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

predate  this  fact  looks  at  life  with  atrophied 
faculties.  And  this  is  true  of  many  of  your  bards 
of  democracy.  Life  is  keenest,  brightest,  full  of 
the  virtues  which  affect  our  unceasing  efforts  to 
evoke  the  dominant  passions  of  joy  and  beauty 
when  rooted  in  Greek  thought  and  feeling.  Yet  a 
certain  critical  attitude  to-day  can  see  no  force  of 
life  in  pagan  subjects,  because  there  is  no  vital 
ugliness  such  as  modern  civilization  presents 
through  social  diseases  and  industrial  tyranny. 
The  queer  conceptions  which  advocate  that  life 
can  only  be  discerned  and  experienced  in  such  con- 
ditions as  sadden  our  relation  to  the  world,  and 
our  fellowmen,  and  which  repudiate  any  attempt 
to  heal  our  spirits  by  holding  up  the  mirror  of 
imagination  to  that  old  world  of  beauty,  are  er- 
roneous." 

"  But  now  and  then,  here  in  America,  a  poet 
speaks  out  for  the  old  beauty,"  claimed  Psyche. 

"  Yea ;  and  the  most  thoroughly  imbued  with 
the  classic  mood,  among  the  younger  American 
poets,  is  Louis  V.  Ledoux,"  I  replied.  "  In  him 
rings  a  genuine  passion.  No  false  simulation ;  no 
mere  reflection  of  a  glamor  that  is  remote  by  as- 
sociation, nor  the  thin  echo  of  other  imaginative 
voices,  has  any  part  in  him.  Take  the  speech 
of  Persephone,  in  the  fourth  act  of  his  new  lyrical 
drama  '  The  Story  of  Eleusis,'  and  note  the  real 
vision  that  animates  his  art: 

"  I  knew  not  that  the  world  was  very  old 
And  sad  beneath  the  burden  of  its  years. 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE      223 

But  here  among  the  souls  of  men  outworn 

Are  folk  of  long  ago;  forgotten  kings 

Of  cities  buried  by  the  sand  or  sea 

In  unremembered  ages ;  shepherd  boys 

Who  learned  their  piping  ere  the  birth  of  Pan ; 

Slim  maidens  sweet  to  love ;  and  children  lost  — 

White  petals  fallen  in  a  field  of  death 

Where  winter  turning  stood  against  the  spring. 

Yea,  few  there  are  who  walk  the  flowering  earth, 

But  here  among  its  fields  of  asphodel 

This  windless  underworld  of  dusk  and  dream 

Has  more  than  all  the  fields  of  earth  could  hold. 

And  all  the  vastness  of  the  circling  sea. 

"  Besides  the  beauty  of  the  verse,  stately  and 
rich  in  its  calm  melodic  simplicity,  there  is  en- 
visaged a  feeling  for  the  deeper  message  of  life." 

"  I  was  impressed  with  a  notice  I  saw  of  this 
drama,  by  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,"  said  Psyche, 
"  and  I  clipped  it  to  paste  in  my  copy  of  the 
book.  Let  me  read  what  it  says,  because  it 
proves  your  claim  that  a  contemporary  poet 
can  deal  with  a  Greek  theme,  and  yet  express  the 
vital  problems  of  life."  And  turning  to  the  back 
of  her  book  she  read :  "  '  Mr.  Ledoux  has  not 
been  able  to  escape  his  modern  education.  .  .  . 
Her  grief  —  Demeter's  —  is  merely  the  personi- 
fication of  human  grief  and  the  death  and  resur- 
rection of  Persephone,  like  the  death  and  resur- 
rection of  the  Christ,  yearly  enacted  in  almost 
all  modern  churches,  commemorates  the  annual 
death  of  Autumn  and  the  annual  rebirth  of 
Spring.     We  feel  its  sadness  and  we  likewise  feel 


224.      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

its  joy.  .  .  .  Mr.  Ledoux  has  given  us  a  volume 
of  genuine  melody,  of  rich  thought,  and  of  con- 
siderable dramatic  possibility.'  According  to  this 
critic  the  poet  does  think  about  life  profoundly 
and  with  a  clear  vision,  in  spite  of  his  using  the 
vehicle  of  legendary  myth  and  its  characters." 

"  Mr.  Ledoux's  achievement  is  in  the  handling 
of  the  situations  which  tell  the  story,  and  in  the 
superbly  wrought  verse,  spoken  by  the  characters 
and  choruses,"  I  said.  "  His  art  is  built  up  with 
rhythms  whose  elaborate  and  grave  music  is  all  the 
more  impressive  for  the  simplicity  of  diction. 
From  beginning  to  end  one  feels  the  consciousness 
of  its  architectonic  values,  the  sense  of  a  monu- 
mental mood  embodied  in  the  fitting  materials  of 
speech.  But  more  than  this,  there  is  the  symbol- 
ized mood  of  human  aspiration  which  the  story  of 
Persephone  so  completely  interprets.  The  poet 
makes  Galatea  remark : 

"  '  A  tale  I  heard  that  men  are  cursed  with  souls: 
But  what  souls  are  I  know  not.' 

And  Arethusa  says, 

"  * .   .  .  I  have  heard 

The  soul  is  hunger  ever  unappeased. 

And  thirst  by  all  earth's  fountains  unassuaged.' 

And  Persephone  adds, 

"  '  The  soul  is  darkness  waiting  for  the  dawn, 

And,  if  dawn  comes,  is  day  that  longs  for  dusk; 
And  now  to  men  as  to  the  soulless  beasts 
Is  death  a  sudden  stranger.' 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE      225 

But  the  inner  meaning  of  the  poet's  vision  of  Per- 
sephone's story  is  condensed  in  this  chorus  of  the 
men  and  women  before  the  altar  at  Eleusis: 

"  '  Who  from  the  outer  ocean. 
Who  from  the  inland  sea. 

Has  the  skill  to  tell, 

Though  he  reason  well, 
What  the  soul  of  man  may  be? 

"  '  Not  from  the  wheeling  planets. 
Not  in  the  scroll  of  earth. 

Has  the  wisest  read 

How  tides  are  led 
Or  the  stars  were  brought  to  birth. 

"  '  Dark  is  the  end  of  being. 
Veiled  is  the  primal  cause: 
But  of  life  we  know 
But  that  ebb  and  flow 
Are  ruled  by  changeless  laws. 

"  *  Glimpses  are  all  our  vision, 
Mystery  folds  us  round: 
But  the  shafted  might 
Of  the  spirit's  light 
Flames  on  the  dark  profound, 

"  '  Searches  the  depth,  and  brightens, 
Soaring  from  Fate's  control: 
Nor  shall  ills  that  reach 
To  the  life  of  each 
Avail  to  touch  the  soul. 


226      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  '  We  whom  a  famine  conquers, 
We  whom  a  drought  can  kill. 

Though  we  mark  our  years 

With  a  trail  of  tears. 
Are  victors,  victors  still.' 

"  These  stanzas  sung  by  the  men  and  women 
as  they  come  to  the  temple  at  Eleusis,  before 
Persephone  and  Demeter,  embody  the  poet's  con- 
viction of  the  final  triumph  of  the  soul  over  dark- 
ness. The  '  Story  of  Eleusis  '  means  this  in  sub- 
stance. Persephone  and  Demeter,  each  in  her  own 
form  and  character,  symbolize  the  significance  of 
this  fruition  to  a  world  of  men  who  must  have  their 
ideal  in  some  visible  form.  The  legend  has  in- 
scribed its  signature  upon  the  earth." 

"  Do  you  think  one  can  find  in  any  modern 
lyrical  drama  songs  and  choruses  to  match  those  in 
'  The  Story  of  Eleusis  '.?  "  asked  Cassandra.  "  I 
would  hazard  that  not  since  the  chorus  beginning 
'  The  hounds  of  the  spring  are  on  winter's  traces,' 
in  Swinburne's  '  Atalanta  in  Calydon,'  has  the 
poetic  drama  produced  one  so  beautiful,  so  stately, 
so  rich  in  harmony,  and  elaborately  figured,  as 
the  '  Hymn  to  Demeter '  chorus  in  the  first  act. 
Let  me  read  it : 

"  Weave  the  dance,  and  raise  again  the  sacred  chorus ; 

Wreathe  the  garlands  of  the  spring  about  the  hair ; 

Now  once  more  the  meadows  burst  in  bloom  before 

us. 

Crying  swallows  dart  and  glitter  through  the  air. 

Glints   the   plowshare   in   the   brown   and   fragrant 

furrow ; 


THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE      227 

Pigeons  coo  in  shady  coverts  as  they  pair; 
Come  the  furtive  mountain  folk  from  cave  and  bur- 
row, 
Lean,  and  blinking  at  the  sunlight's  sudden  glare. 

"  Bright  through  midmost  heaven  moves   the   lesser 
Lion; 
Hide  the  Hyades  in  ocean-caverns  hoar: 
Past  the  shoulders  of  the  sunset  flames  Orion, 

Following  the  Sisters  seaward  evermore. 
Gleams  the  east  at  evening,  lit  by  low  Arcturus. 
Out  to  subtle-scented  dawns  beside  the  shore. 
Yet  a  little  and  the  Pleiades  will  lure  us: 

Weave  the  dance  and  raise  the  chorus  as  of  yore. 

"  Far  to  eastward  up  the  fabled  gulf  of  Issus, 

Northward,  southward,  westward,  now  the  trader 
goes. 
Passing  headlands  clustered  yellow  with  narcissus. 
Bright  with  hyacinth,  with  poppy,  and  with  rose. 
Shines  the  sea  and  falls  the  billows  as  undaunted, 
Past  the  rising  of  the  stars  that  no  man  knows. 
Sails  he  onward  through  the  islands  siren-haunted, 
Till  the  clashing  gates  of  rock  before  him  close. 

"  Kindly  Mother  of  the  beasts  and  birds  and  flowers, 
Gracious  bringer  of  the  barley  and  the  grain. 
Earth  awakened  feels  thy  sunlight  and  thy  showers; 

Great  Demeter !     Let  us  call  thee  not  in  vain. 
Lead  us  safely  from  the  seedtime  to  the  threshing, 
Past  the  harvest  and  the  vineyard's  purple  stnin; 
Let  us   see   thy  corn-pale  hair  the   sunlight  mesh- 
ing, 
When  the  sounding  flails  of  autumn  swing  again. 


228      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Such  an  achievement  is  rare  enough  in  con- 
temporary poetry  to  be  highly  prized,"  I  said. 
"  The  gift  of  '  The  Story  of  Eleusis  '  is  a  gift  of 
beauty,  and  it  is  so  supremely  a  gift  of  beaut}^,  be- 
cause through  it  stream  rays  of  vision  embodied 
in  an  art  of  melodic  and  figured  speech." 


XI 

THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY 

The  origin  of  a  dispute  is  one  of  the  most  mys- 
terious things  in  human  experience,  and  I  can  no 
more  tell  how  the  argument  arose  than  I  can  tell 
what  the  final  agreement  was.  Psyche's  dog 
brought  it  to  an  end,  of  that  I  am  sure.  His  cir- 
cling antics  up  the  road  drew  our  attention,  and 
we  started  on  the  run  to  find  out  what  had  hap- 
pened to  the  poor  creature.  We  arrived  to  find 
him  writhing  in  the  throes  of  a  fit.  Every  other 
thought  vanished  but  the  thought  of  what  to  do 
to  help  the  poor  fellow.  Hardl}'  before  the  first- 
aid  thought  of  water  had  come  to  the  surface  of 
our  action,  the  little  fellow  staggered  to  his  feet, 
and  dashed  down  the  road  like  an  arrow. 

"  A  running  fit,"  exclaimed  Psyche.  "  He'll 
drop  dead  in  the  woods,  poor  fellow." 

The  dog  had  now  vanished  from  sight  in  the 
woods  about  half  a  mile  up  the  road.  Jason  and 
I  were  for  following  him,  but  both  Psyche  and 
Cassandra  agreed  it  would  be  useless.  It  was  Cas- 
sandra who  brought  us  back  to  our  argument  by 
illustrating  the  dog's  condition. 

"  There's  a  bit  of  humor  in  that  dog's  situa- 
tion,"   she   explained.     "  It's   based    on    a    tragic 

note,  which  gives   it   a   touch   of   the   true   comic 

229 


230      THE  POETIC  YEAH  FOR  1916 

spirit.  It's  a  satire  on  our  treatment  of  the  ani- 
mal; for,  after  days  of  chained  confinement,  the 
reaction  of  his  first  freedom  in  the  sun  is  to  lose 
his  wits ;  and  the  wit  of  the  situation  is,  that  he 
goes  flying  down  the  road  in  search  of  the  senses 
he  has  lost." 

We  had  started  back,  a  little  uneasy  about  the 
dog's  whereabouts  and  condition;  and  reaching 
our  pine,  settled  to  our  task  of  discussing  the 
week's  poets. 

"  You  define  four  aspects  of  humor,  then," 
Jason  summed  up  Cassandra's  remarks.  "  Hu- 
mor, comedy,  satire,  and  wit,"  he  enumerated. 
"  Each  having  a  special  point  of  view,  but  really 
from  the  same  root-consciousness." 

"  Are  they  not  rather  four  expressions  of  the 
comic  spirit  ? "  I  suggested.  "  After  all,  our 
moods  are  pretty  sharply  defined  into  the  tragic 
and  comic.  There  is  scarcely  any  blend  of  the 
two  producing  a  neutral  mood.  The  comic  is  the 
higher,  and  more  difficult  to  attain.  It  appeals 
more  widely  and  deeply  to  humanity,  because  it 
gathers  up  the  essences  of  tragic  experience,  and 
shows  the  temporariness  of  grief." 

*'  And  have  you  noticed  how  one  phase  —  if  we 
accept  your  four  aspects  —  of  the  comic  spirit  be- 
comes a  lost  art  every  now  and  then.?  "  asked 
Psyche.  "  Yet  I  wonder  if  a  really  fine  satiric 
poem  would  appeal  to  our  modern  civihzation. 
Mr.  Frankau,  who  has  lately  given  us  a  war  poem 
in  '  A  Song  of  the  Guns,'  wrote  a  couple  of  sa- 
tiric narratives  a  few  years  ago,  which  fell  rather 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        231 

flat  over  here.  Not  quite  so  flat  as  these  Kip- 
lingese  war  verses  in  '  A  Song  of  the  Suns  '  deserve 
to  fall,  but  winning  nowhere  near  the  attention 
they  deserved  as  a  satire  on  modern  English  and 
American  life.  Can  the  full-toned  raillery  of 
Byron's  '  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,' 
or  *  Don  Juan,'  or  '  A  Vision  of  Judgment,'  ever 
return  to  English  verse  on  either  side  of  the 
ocean?  " 

"  It  is  apparent,"  said  Jason,  "  that  the  at- 
tempt, at  least,  has  been  made  over  here.  Don't 
you  think  '  The  Fledgling  Bard  and  the  Poetry 
Society'  an  attempt  of  earnest  dimensions?  See 
what  the  subject  ofl'ers.  And  Mr.  Margetson, 
very  much  after  the  manner  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury English  satirists,  takes  the  liberty  of  pas- 
turing his  muse  in  a  variety  of  fields.  His  poem 
is,  I  admit,  a  kind  of  anomaly.  He  has  the  satir- 
ist's power  to  manipulate  rhymes,  which  is  half 
the  conquest  of  thought  in  such  a  poem.  He 
takes  an  aspiring  poet  who  believes,  if  he  can  but 
reach  and  be  received  into  the  sacred  organiza- 
tion of  the  Poetry  Society  of  America,  his  name 
and  fame  will  be  won.  It  is  a  little  vague  from 
just  Vt'hat  direction  he  starts  on  his  pilgrimage, 
but  there  is  no  vagueness  about  the  divers  i  "cperi- 
ences  and  questions  that  interest  him  on  the  way. 
He  tells  us,  at  the  beginning,  that, 

"  '  I'm  out  to  find  the  new,  the  modern  school, 
Where  Science  trains  the  fledgling  hard  to  fly, 
Where  critics  teach  the  ignorant,  the  fool. 


232      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

To  write  the  stujQT  the  editors  would  buy: 
It  matters  not  e'en  tho  it  be  a  lie, — 
Just  so  it  aims  to  smash  tradition's  crown 
And  build   up   one   instead   decked   with   a   new 
renown. 

"  '  A  thought  is  haunting  me  by  night  and  day, 
And  in  some  safe  archive  I  seek  to  lay  it; 
I  have  some  startling  thing  I  wish  to  say, 
And  they  can  put  me  wise  just  how  to  say  it. 
Without  their  aid,  I,  like  the  ass,  must  bray  it. 
Without  due  knowledge  of  its  mood  and  tense. 
And  so  'tis  sure  to  fail  the  bard  to  recompense. 

"  *  Will  some  kind  one  direct  me  to  that  college 
Where  every  budding  genius  now  is  headed. 
The  only  source  to  gain  poetic  knowledge, 
Where  all  the  sacred  truths  lay  deep  imbedded, 
Where  nothing  but  the  genuine  goods  are  shred- 
ded,— 
The  factory  where  shape  new  feet  and  meters 
That    make    poetic    symbols    sound    like    carpet 
beaters.'  " 

"  This  young  bard,"  I  commented,  "  is  quite 
mistaken  if  he  expects  to  find  the  Poetry  Society 
a  '  factory  where  they  shape  new  feet  and  meters,' 
making  '  poetic  symbols  sound  like  carpet  beat- 
ers.' The  organization  as  a  whole  is  quite  op- 
posed to  new  forms.  Masters  and  Frost,  Amy 
Lowell  and  Alfred  Kreymborg  are  anathema  to  its 
faith  in  the  sacred  traditions  of  English  verse. 
The  prize  poem,  '  The  Child  in  Me,'  is  the  standard 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        233 

it  has  set  up.  He  should  go  to  Brookline,  or  out 
to  Chicago  or  St.  Louis  to  feel  the  new  impulse. 
New  York  has  it  only  to  the  extent  with  which 
these  other  places  give  it  to  her.  Why,  Gramercy 
Park  is  more  provincial  than  Heath  Street,  with 
its  stone  walls  and  shade  trees." 

"  I  am  more  interested  in  what  this  young  bard 
thinks  of  modern  society,"  Psyche  informed  us. 
"  He  has  a  great  deal  to  say  about  Billy  Sunday, 
the  Negro  problem,  the  Democratic  and  Repub- 
lican campaigns,  Christian  Science,  baseball,  prize- 
fighting, and  the  war.  It  seems  he  is  obsessed 
with  some  of  these  subjects." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  can't  go  through  all  his  rami- 
fications on  those  topics,"  I  said,  "  but  I  do  want 
to  quote  this  rather  delicious  exposition  on  the 
various  religious  sects.  It  is  a  kind  of  interlude 
in  the  poem : 

"  Or  win  or  lose  come  my  kind  muse. 
And  tune  for  me  a  merry  ditty; 
Sing  it  true,  come  won't  you,  do? 
And  yet  it  seem  a  sin  and  pitty. 

"  Christian  Science  hurls  defiance. 
At  the  Doctor  and  disease. 
Holy  Jumpers  quaff  their  bumpers 
And  hug  and  kiss  just  as  they  please. 

"  Universalist,  wash  foot  Baptists, 
Wesleyans  and  Moravianites, 
Play  their  antics  like  old  frantics. 
And  assert  religious  rights. 


234.      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Zionists,  ho !  holy  jingo  ! 
Fight  to  take  Jerusalem; 
They  take  an  oath  to  break  the  Sabbath, 
Yet  they  take  no  stock  in  ham. 

"  Methodists  play  games  and  whist. 
Go  to  dances,  cast  their  vote; 
Catholics  rule  politics. 
And  get  the  Presbyterians'  goat. 

"  In  such  queer  divisions  of  Christian  religions, 
Where  men  curse  and  steal  and  fight. 
Join  the  free  Salvation  Army, 
For  the  soul's  serene  delight." 

Jason  was  immensely  amused.  He  tossed  his 
arms  in  the  air  and  shouted,  "  The  Salvation  Army 
for  mine !  That  settles  the  question  —  or,  at 
least,  the  fledgling  bard  has  settled  it  for  me  —  a 
final  entry  into  heaven  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
big  brass  drum." 

"  Don't  blaspheme  a  great  inspiration  like 
that,"  scolded  Psyche.  "  If  you  are  thinking  — 
and  I  know  you  are  —  of  Mr.  Lindsay's  poem  on 
General  William  Booth,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  to  tag  the  thought  of  it  on  the  satiric, 
ridiculously  satiric,  lines  of  the  fledgling  bard." 

"  But  I  insist  we  see  the  bard  to  the  end  of  his 
pilgrimage ;  his  hope  attained,"  I  said.  "  So  I  am 
going  to  quote  these  three  stanzas  at  the  end  of 
the  poem: 

"  Behold  a  shower  of  light  upon  the  way. 
Dear  sight,  that's  where  the  sacred  mansion  stands. 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        235 

It  shines  just  like  a  dollar,  bright  as  day. 
And  quite  a  brilliant  circle  it  commands. 
Methinks  I  hear  the  playing  of  the  bands 
And  see  the  muses  dancing  in  a  row. 
Then  blow  ye  merry  bards,  your  pipes  triumphant 
blow. 

"  Where  is  the  man  who  knows  the  entrance  way. 
The  usher-bard  purged  with  the  christening  flame, 
The  keeper  of  the  guard  by  night  or  day 
Who  leads  new  lights  into  the  hall  of  fame. 
Where  I  may  play  the  universal  game 
A  member  of  this  great  society 
And  learn  to  read  and  write  the  modern  poetry? 

"  What  blinding  brilliance !  'tis  the  Imagists, 
That  grand  illustrious  galaxy  of  stars. 
Their  flood  of  light  rolls  back  the  frosty  mists 
In  rainbow  folds  that  match  the  veil  of  Mars. 
This  is  the  club;  they  leap  in  glad  hurrahs 
To  greet  their  leader  Pound,  the  Master  wit. 
This  is  the  school,  the  class,  and  here  is  where  I  fit." 

"  It  is  too  absurd,"  laughed  Psyche  in  spite  of 
herself. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  Jason  differed,  with  a  counte- 
nance solemn  as  Job,  but  behind  which  I  knew  he 
was  repressing  an  explosive  laughter.  "  It's  the 
most  serious  thing  I've  read  about  that  missionary 
institution." 

Jason  soon  settled,  however,  into  a  thoughtful 
mood.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed,  "  But  what  is 
American  humor  coming  to?  Shades  of  Saxe, 
Artemus    Ward,    Bill    Nye,    'Gene    Field,    Josh 


236      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Billings,  and  the  rest,  where  are  your  progeny?" 
he  appealed  to  the  unanswering  air. 

"  Oh,  there's  humor  aplenty,"  I  said,  "  but 
there's  precious  little  English  or  American  humor 
in  America.  English  humor  died  in  New  England 
when  the  abolitionist  movement  was  born,  and 
American  humor  died  on  the  Western  plains  when 
the  cowboy  became  a  circus  spectacle.  Between 
James  Russell  Lowell  and  Walt  Mason,"  I  went 
on,  "  American  humorous  verse  became  a  valley 
into  which  the  streams  of  every  national  humor 
ran.  Our  humor  is  not  indigenous,  but  cosmopol- 
itan. The  brotherhood  of  man  finds  its  fruition 
in  America,  but  not  in  social  justice,  nor  political 
■equality,  but  in  the  evolution  of  humor.  It  is  the 
jest  of  democracy.  I  needn't  prove  my  conten- 
tion by  naming  names,  you  are  too  well  acquainted 
with  the  facts  of  popular  humor  of  the  past  decade 
or  two." 

"  Yes  ;  you  are  right,"  Jason  agreed.  *'  Those 
names  are  rooted  in  the  ancient  lands  of  Pales- 
tine, Africa  and  Ireland.  It  is  a  curious  fact 
that  these  three  races,  the  Jew,  the  Negro,  and 
the  Irish,  have  supplied  American  literature  with 
its  best  humor.  I  suppose  it  is  because  they  have 
had  the  most  tragic  racial  histories.  The  English 
who  settled  at  Jamestown  brought  along  with 
their  other  characteristics,  gayety,  and  they 
brought  with  them  when  they  settled  at  Plymouth 
thirteen  years  later  conscience,  but  the  contribu- 
tion of  England  to  the  new  colonies  in  the  western 
world  was  short  of  humor." 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        237 

"  But  Bridges  is  a  good  English  name,"  said 
Cassandra.  "  And  Madeline  Bridges  has  long 
had  an  established  reputation  as  a  writer  of  light 
humorous  verse.  Her  new  book  *  The  Open 
Book  '  quite  sustains  that  reputation." 

"You  call  vers  de  societe  humorous  v^se.'' " 
asked  Jason.  "  Brander  Matthews  defines  it  as 
'  familiar  verse,'  and  even  so  takes  no  credit  for  a 
literal  definition.  Madeline  Bridges  seems  to  me 
to  write  "vers  de  societe." 

"  Well,  whatever  jou  call  it,  here  is  a  good  exam- 
ple named  '  Between  the  Lines,'  "  and  Psyche  read : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Raymond,  (Dearest  Ned!) 
My  mother  wishes  I  should  write 
(She  does  not  wish  it  half  as  much 
As  /  do,  darling!)   to  invite 

"  Your  presence  at  bridge  whist,  (Of  course. 
You  hate  it,  dear  —  I'm  glad  you  do  !) 
On  Wednesday  evening.     She  has  planned 
A  pleasant  party  (I  have,  too!) 

"  And  hopes  you'll  come,  if  not  engaged. 
(Of  course  you  will !     I  mean  to  get 
Old  Hodge  and  Mrs.  Winks  to  fill 

Our  places  —  yours  and  mine !)     Please  let 

"  Dear  Mama  know  if  she  may  count 
Upon  your  coming  (Yes,  she  may). 
She  sends  her  very  best  regards. 
And  I  am  (more  than  I  can  say). 
Sincerely  yours, 

J.  E.  Van  Ness. 
(Your  little,  loving  girlie,  Jess !) 


238      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  This  has  a  neater  turn,"  Jason  followed,  read- 
ing '  His  Answer  ' : 

"  '  Before  you  ask  my  vow,'  she  said, 
*  Dear,  listen  to  this  word : 
You're  not  the  first  man  I  have  loved. 
Nor  second, —  nay  —  nor  third.' 

"  '  Am  I  the  fourth  or  fifth,'  he  asked 

With  scorn,  '  or  were  there  more  ?  ' 

*  Now,  don't  be  hurt  and  grieved,'  she  sighed  — 

'  But,  as  I  said  before  — 

"  '  'Tis  not  my  first  love,  dear, —  but  hark ! ' — 
He  felt  her  gentle  touch  — 
'  I  promise  it  shall  be  my  last: 
Now  —  can  you  say  as  much  ?  * 

"  A  silence  fell  —  upon  her  hand 
He  bowed  his  manly  head. 

*  My  love,'  he  said  — '  my  own  —  my  bride  ! ' — 

But  —  that  was  all  he  said  !  " 


(( 


And  what  do  you  make  of  *  Cat'?  Cradle, 
Songs  Grave  and  Gay,'  by  H.  Stanley  Haskins .?  " 
I  asked. 

"  He's  a  very  clever  fellow,"  Jason  replied. 

"  I  mean  what  kind  of  a  humorous  poet  would 
you  call  him  —  good,  bad,  or  just  passable.'*"  I 
insisted. 

"Suppose  we  sample  him  and  find  out.?"  sug- 
gested Cassandra. 

"  Very  well,"  agreed  Jason ;  "  then  I'll  begin 
with 'The  Feminist   Alphabet    (Compiled  by   an 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        239 

agnostic),'  which  I  am  not  so  sure  you'll  approve 
of."  This  last  phrase  was  meant  for  Cassandra, 
who  was  devoted  to  the  '  cause.'  With  inimitable 
wit,  Jason  read: 

"  A  is  for  ANTis  —  the  allies  of  sin. 
Who  scourge  Suffragitis  with  horrible  din. 

"B  is  for  BALLOT  —  the  sceptre  which  rules. 
Not  granted  to  Women,  ex-convicts  or  fools. 

"  C  is  for  CHILD  LABOR  (let  plutocrats  gloat). 
How  long  would  it  last  if  Mothers  could  vote } 

"  D  is  for  DUTY  men  owe  to  their  Wives, 
To  give  them  the  vote  —  then  repent  all  their  lives. 

"  E  is  for  EQUALITY  —  sought  at  the  polls 
By  feminine  creatures  with  masculine  souls. 

"  F  is  for  FRANCHISE  — 'Tis  plain  to  be  seen 
They'll  have  it,  God  bless  'em,  by  nineteen  steen 
steen. 

"  G  is  for  GIRLS  —  whenever  they  start 
They'll  vote  with  their  head  —  but  more  with  their 
heart. 

"  H  is  for  HUSBAND  with  resolute  jaw. 
Who,  when  you  have  children,  is  required  by  law. 

"  I  is  for  INFANT  —  asleep  in  her  crib. 
Deprived  of  a  vote  through  descent  from  a  rib. 

"  J  is  for  JUSTICE  which  Women  pursue; 
They  obey  all  the  laws  —  why  not  make  just  a  few  ? 


240      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  K  is  for  KERBSTONE  —  where  humble  men  stand 
And  watch  suffrage  pageants  keep  step  with  the 
band. 

"  L  is  for  LADIES  —  chock  full  of  hard  knocks 
For  the  masculine  voter,  while  darning  his  socks. 

"  M  is  for  MANACLES  —  fetters  which  years 
Have   forged  on  the  wrists  of  the  Women,  poor 
dears ! 

"  N  is  for  NATIONS  —  learning  at  last 
That  shy,  shrinking  Woman's  a  thing  of  the  Past. 

"  O  is  for  OAK  —  once  for  clinging  vines  suited. 
But  strong  grew  the  vine,  so  the  tree's  been  up- 
rooted. 

"  P  is  for  PAPA  —  once  head  of  the  house. 
But  since  Mother  voted  as  meek  as  a  mouse. 

"  Q  is  for  QUIBBLE  —  dare  any  man  state 
That  Suffragettes  do  it  when  pressed  in  debate  ? 

"  R  is  for  REVERENCE  which  decent  man  shows 
To  his  charming  and  arduous  suffragist  foes. 


<<    C      • 


S  is  for  SEX  —  which  being  made  double 

Is  really  the  mainspring  of  all  of  this  trouble. 

T  is  for  TAXES  which  Woman  must  pay. 
Concerning  their  uses  she's  nothing  to  say. 

U  is  for  UNION  —  for  thus,  hand  in  hand, 

Queen  Man  and  King  Woman  united  should  stand. 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        241 

"  V  is  for  VOTING  —  what  feminine  bliss 
Except  perhaps  flirting,  is  greater  than  this? 

"  W  is  for  WOMAN  —  the  Mother  of  men. 
But  without  any  fathers,  Mrs.  Woman,  what  then? 

"  X  is  for  XANTHIPPE  —  quite  set,  as  you  know, 
Did  she,  too,  root  for  suffrage,  so  long,  long  ago? 

"  Y  is  for  YOKE  —  such  as  dumb  cattle  wear. 
Let  him  who'd  grind  Woman  to  earth  have  a  care! 

"  Z  is  for  ZENITH   (no  more  '  don'ts  '  and  '  can'ts  ') 
When  Woman  will  stalk  through  the  World  wear- 
ing '  pants  ' !  " 

"  Well,  I  hope  the  suffrage  organizations  won't 
adopt  that  poem  for  a  constitution,"  Cassandra 
remarked,  when  Jason  finished. 

"  They  could  do  worse,"  Jason  retorted. 

"  Come,  come,"  I  cried,  "  neither  of  jou  are  do- 
ing justice  to  Mr.  Haskins  as  a  humorist.  Now, 
personally  I  think,  he  hits  off  a  humorous  situa- 
tion with  true  distinction.  I  am  going  to  read 
'  The  Tragedy,'  which  presents  a  most  amusing  in- 
cident : 

"  The  shoemaker  sat 

With  his  rat-a-tat-tat. 
While  fitting  my  shoes  with  new  soles,  new  soles, 

And  there  stocking  footed 

I  sat  as  if  rooted 
With  holes  in  my  socks,  blooming  holes,  holes,  holes. 

Alas,  what  a  sin  to 

Look  out  through  the  window 


243      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  see  Mary  passing,  my  sweet,  my  sweet. 

But  how  could  I  hollo 

And  how  could  I  follow 
With  holes  in  my  socks  and  no  shoes  on  my  feet? 

I  begged  the  shoemaker. 

The  blooming  old  faker. 
To  give  back  my  shoes,  without  soles,  without  heels, 

But  though  they  weren't  done,  he 

Demanded  the  money 
And  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  my  frantic  appeals. 

So  off  down  the  street. 

On  her  dainty,  small  feet. 
Walked  Mary,  sweet  Mary,  with  swift  graceful  stride, 

And  but  for  the  shocking 

Large  holes  in  my  stocking 
For  sure,  without  shoes,  I'd  'a'  walked  at  her  side." 

"  Sort  of  blows  through  you  like  a  clean  wind, 
doesn't  it.'*  "  remarked  Cassandra. 

"  Wholesome  and  sweet.  Mr.  Haskins  sees  the 
humors  of  life  in  the  commonest  incidents,"  Jason 
commented. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  his  verse  is  something  if 
we  had  a  name  for  it,  that  corresponds  to  the 
homespun  verse  of  a  generation  ago.  Rag  mats 
and  crazy  quilts  were  of  the  homespun  period. 
Mr.  Haskins'  humorous  muse  is  of  the  period  of 
mission  furniture  and  gas  mantles  —  she's  quite  a 
modern  lady." 

"  A  parodist  on  life,"  declared  Jason. 

"  That's  one  thing  life  can't  be  —  parodied," 
Psyche  contested.  "  It  is  only  literature  that 
lends  itself  to  parody." 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        243 


a 


But  I  differ  with  you,  Psyche,  though  I  won't 
argue  the  point,"  Jason  held  to  his  belief.  "  I 
suppose  you  think  that  only  cynics  hold  that  lit- 
erature is  mostly  a  parody  on  life." 

"  Cynics  don't  hold  to  anything  but  their  ego- 
tism," Psyche  rebuked. 

"  Oh,  really,  I'm  not  as  bad  as  that,  am  I?  "  be- 
seeched  Jason.  "  But  do  you  think  Mr.  Unter- 
meyer  is  cynical  in  his  parodies?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  broke  in  Cassandra. 

"  No,  but  a  trifle  satirical,"  added  Psyche. 

"  But  you'll  admit  he  strikes  a  posture,"  Jason 
countered. 

"  I'll  not  admit  anything  of  the  kind.  He 
makes  a  gesture,  but  that's  quite  a  different  thing 
from  a  posture,"  replied  Psyche. 

"  Oh,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  flourish," 
Jason  satisfied  himself. 

"Parody  is  an  art,  whether  it  is  on  life  or  lit- 
erature," I  interpolated,  "  and  very  few  have  suc- 
ceeded in  it.  It  seems  to  be  more  effective  in  the 
form  of  verse.  And  poets,  because  I  suppose 
they  are  more  sharply  defined  in  their  character- 
istic qualities,  appear  more  susceptible  to  parody. 
We  have,  however,  carried  verse  parodies  to  a  far- 
cical extent,  and  seldom  to  the  heights  of  critical 
comedy.  Burlesque  has  been  deprived  of  the  ex- 
quisite refinement  which  is,  or  should  be,  a  part  of 
its  nature.  It  is  sadly  serious  the  way  we  have 
tried  to  be  seriously  funny.  Our  means  have  been 
apt,  but  we  have  managed  to  tinge  it  a  little  too 
coarsely ;  to  rub  the  bloom  which  a  satiric  mood 


244?      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

should  possess  in  the  first  careless  rapture  of  strik- 
ing at  a  foible,  or  of  copying  a  manner.  We  have 
been  rich  in  humor,  but  poor  in  wit.  Parody  can 
get  along  very  well  without  humor,  but  it  dies 
if  there  is  no  wit  in  it.  Humor  is  like  a  yardstick, 
but  wit  is  like  a  chemical.  Therefore  a  fool  may 
be  humorous,  but  only  a  genius  can  be  a  wit.  Hu- 
mor may  be  an  inspiration  of  life,  and  therefore 
a  silly  thing  of  fine  flavor  and  elaborate  adorn- 
ment ;  but  wit  is  analytic,  like  an  acid,  maybe,  or 
a  perfume,  with  the  quality  of  an  essence :  distilled 
in  the  spirit  it  gives  to  thought  a  keen  and  pene- 
trating power.  It  uncovers  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning whatever  it  strikes." 

"  I'd  like  to  quote  against  what  you  say," 
Jason  addressed  me,  "  what  Mr.  Untermeyer  says 
in  his  prefatory  note  to  his  volume  of  parodies. 
'  Parody,'  said  someone,  and  it  must  have  been 
G.  K.  Chesterton,  '  is  the  critic's  half-holiday.' 
.  .  .  '  Far  from  converting  virtue  into  a  paradox 
and  degrading  truth  by  ridicule'  (I  am  quoting 
Isaac  Disraeli),  'parody  will  only  strike  at  what 
is  chimerical  and  false;  it  is  not  a  piece  of  buf- 
foonery so  much  as  a  critical  exposition.'  Cast- 
ing about  for  something  between  an  apology  and 
an  air  of  dignity,  the  parodist  usually  fishes  up 
phrases  like  the  foregoing  ones.  Or,  if  he  has  an 
educative  turn  of  mind  (and  he  generally  has)  he 
prefaces  his  collection  with  a  disquisition  on  the 
various  forms  and  classes  of  parody ;  pointing 
out  the  difference  between  the  mere  burlesque  of 
sound  and  the  subtler  (and  more  critical)  parody 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        245 

of  sense.  After  which  the  reader  is  rather  sharply 
told  that  the  latter  form  is  the  only  one  worth 
serious  consideration.  The  reader  is  also  given 
to  understand,  in  a  coy  and  surprisingly  modest 
last  sentence,  that  the  present  parodist  em- 
ploys only  this  more  elevated  and  illuminating 
method." 

"  But  in  the  very  next  sentence  Mr.  Unter- 
meyer  modestly  disclaims  any  success  in  carrying 
out  this  method,"  I  said.  "  I  shall  have  to  re- 
store the  confidence  of  his  readers  by  quoting  his 
confession  of  attempt.  '  I  have  attempted  to 
parody  the  thoughts,'  he  says  '  moods  and  man- 
ners of  the  poets  victimized  rather  than  any  spe- 
cific work,  and  that  in  only  one  case  did  I  have 
a  particular  poem  in  mind.'  I  give  him  the 
further  credit  for  sharply  dividing  the  two  forms 
or  classes  of  parody  by  practising  the  higher, 
which  fulfils  my  definition  of  wit.  Mr.  Unter- 
meyer  by  this  practise  repudiates  the  '  mere  bur- 
lesque of  sound,'  and  achieves  the  '  subtler  and 
more  critical  parody  of  sense.' " 

"  It  is  interesting  how  the  poet  grouped  his 
volume,"  Jason  commented.  "  Two  groups  are 
parodies,  and  one  burlesque.  The  first  and  second 
are  '  The  Banquet  of  the  Bards,'  and  '  Attempted 
Affinities ' ;  the  third  '  Pierian  Handsprings.' 
The  '  Banquet '  consists  of  parodies  on  twenty- 
seven  contemporary  English  and  American  poets, 
among  whom  are  John  Masefield,  Edwin  Arling- 
ton Robinson,  William  Butler  Yeats,  Robert 
Frost,    Vachel    Lindsay,    Edgar    Lee    Masters, 


246      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Stephen  Phillips,  Owen  Seaman,  Gilbert  K.  Ches- 
terton, William  Watson,  Sara  Teasdale,  Frank- 
lin P.  Adams,  Amy  Lowell,  Rudyard  Kipling, 
Alfred  Noyes,  Austin  Dobson,  and  Witter  Byn- 
ner.  Here  is  a  unique  performance.  Mr.  Un- 
termeyer  is  a  critic  of  insight,  and  he  gets  the 
sense  in  the  thought,  mood,  and  manner  of  these 
poets ;  he  is  a  poet  of  expressive,  subtle  forms,  and 
he  gets  their  individual  rhythmic  qualities  with 
extraordinary  similarity.  The  '  Attempted  Af- 
finities '  is  quite  a  new  idea  in  parodical  literature, 
a  striking  and  original  combination  of  the  crit- 
ical fancy.  In  these  Heinrich  Heine  and  Clinton 
Scollard,  Andrew  Lang  and  Oscar  Wilde,  Shelley 
and  Laurence  Hope,  Herrick  and  Horace,  Robert 
Browning  and  Austin  Dobson,  Swinburne  and  F. 
Locker-Lampson,  Keats  and  Madison  Cawein, 
William  Ernest  Henley  and  Fran9ois  Villon,  Poe 
and  the  Pre-Raphaelite  poets,  with  Ben  Jonson 
and  Harry  E.  Smith,  collaborate  in  making 
verses." 

"  It  must  be  because  Mr.  Untermeyer  reveres 
these  poets  that  he  pays  them  the  compliment  of 
crystallizing  their  most  individual  qualities  in  the 
art  of  parody." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  believe  that  is  true,"  I  said.  "  But 
these  parodies  are  really  an  art.  Somehow  pure 
poetry  cannot  escape  expression  even  when  Mr. 
Untermeyer  wittily  attires  himself  in  the  verbal 
and  mental  garments  of  another  poet.  I  don't 
think  he  is  always  successful  in  his  imitation,  as 
for  instance  in  the  case  of  Masefield;  and  if  his 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        247 

own  figure  breaks  through  he  cannot  be  otherwise 
than  exquisitely  poetical,  as  when  he  writes : 

"  One  morning  when  the  sun  was  high 
And  larks  were  cleaving  the  blue  sky. 
Singing  as  though  their  hearts  would  break 
With  April's  keen  and  happy  ache." 

"  The  parodies  on  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 
and  Robert  Frost  are  the  most  successful,"  as- 
serted Cassandra.  "  Don't  you  think  he  gets  the 
real  thing  through,  in  making  the  former  tell 
*  What  He  Knew  of  Simple  Simon,'  and  the  latter 
relate  '  The  Death  of  the  Tired  Man  '?  " 

Jason,  who  had  a  liking  for  parody,  began  read- 
ing the  one  on  Robinson : 

"  What  does  it  matter  —  who  are  we  to  say 
How  much  is  clear  and  how  much  there  must  be 
Behind  his  mystical  directness  —  see. 
He  left  us  smiling,  and  a  bit  astray. 
Yet  there  were  times  when  Simon  would  convey 
A  cryptic  sharpness,  etched  with  something  free; 
For  he  was  touched  with  fire  and  prophecy, 
And  we  who  scarcely  knew  him,  mourn  him  .  .  . 
Eh? 

I'll  say  this  much  for  Simon:     If  his  ghost 
Has  half  the  life  of  many  men,  or  most. 
He  will  not  rest  in  the  ophidian  night. 
He  will  come  back  and  storm  the  western  gate, 
Scorning  such  lesser  things  as  Death  and  Fate.  .  .  . 
Well,   there   is   that   side,   too.  .  .  .  You   may   be 
right. 


248      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Vachel  Lindsay,"  Jason  went  on  after  reading, 
"  lends  himself  more  easily  to  parody,  and  we  ex- 
pect the  effect  to  be  more  prominent.  When  Mr. 
Untermeyer  makes  him  borrow  a  megaphone  and 
chant  the  '  Glorious  Fourth,'  we  are  prepared  for 
what  is  coming ;  though  not  for  that  rebuke  at  the 
end,  which  is  meant  to  sting  our  hypocritical  na- 
tional sentiment.  Let  me  give  you  a  taste  of  this 
verse,"  and  Jason  read: 

"  Heard  the  loud  bells,  proud  bells,  spire-bells. 
Heard  the  call  bells,  hall-bells,  fire-bells. 
Gay  bells,  sleigh-bells,  night  and  day  bells; 
Singing  there  and  swinging  there  and  all  together 

ringing  there: 
*  Ding-dong  —  clangaranga  —  boom,  boom-ah. 
Ding-dong  —  clangaranga  —  boom,  boom-ah ; 
Rejoice,  oh  people,  ye  shall  live  and  be 
Free  and  equal  in  a  land  made  free ! ' 

"  WHAT? 

"  '  Well,  almost  equal  —  almost  free. 
Fear  no  more  from  tyranny. 
But  with  loud  democracy 
While  the  starry  symbol  waves 
In  a  land  of  liberty, 
Yankees  never  shall  be  slaves ! ' 

"Bang,  bang;  ding-dong  —  boom,  boom-ah; 
Clangaranga,  clangaranga  —  sis-boom-bah. 
Bang  —  Bang  —  bang  —  hang  —  BANG ! 
Ssshh.  .  .  . 

Pop.  .  .  .  Pop.  .  .  .  Pop.  .  .  . 
Bah.  ...    !" 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        249 


(( 


Why,  you  read  it  as  excitingly  as  Lindsay 
would  himself,"  Psyche  complimented  Jason. 

"  Oh,  no ;  I'm  sure  I  don't  quite  get  the  swing 
of  the  head  nor  the  precise  courtesy  of  the  fingers 
embracing,  which  Mr.  Lindsay  gets  into  his  read- 
ing.    It's  unique,  no  one  else  can  do  it." 

"  From  '  Harry  Graham  Adds  to  His  Misrep- 
resentative  Men  a  Picture  of  J.  M.  Barrie,'  I  Avant 
to  quote  two  lines,  which  might,  after  all,  very 
well  be  taken  as  the  essence  of  the  subtle  art  in 
these  parodies,"  I  said,  quoting: 

"  Who   burlesques   when   he   most   reveres ; 
And  winks  an  eye  —  to  hide  his  tears." 

"  I  confess  that  the  book  offers  many  tempta- 
tions to  quote,"  said  Jason.  "  The  parody  on 
Ezra  Pound  is  stunning;  it  is  as  good  poetry  as 
that  antic  mind  ever  made  in  his  most  strained  and 
serious  effort ;  and  Mr.  Untermeyer  sings  with 
'  winks  in  an  eye.'  .  .  .  Oh,  I  simply  can't  re- 
frain," Jason  broke  out,  "  I  must  read  this  parody 
on  Franklin  P.  Adams,  who  '  adds  to  the  gayety  of 
libations  by  adapting  the  eleventh  ode  of  the 
Fourth  Book  of  Horace  — 1916  Model!'"  and 
before  any  of  us  could  speak,  Jason  was  off  on  the 
lilt  of  this  motley  elegance: 

"  See,  Phyllis,  I've  a  jar  of  Alban  wine, 

Made  of  the  choicest  grapes  that  one  can  gather. 
Vintage  ?     Well,  yes  —  its  years  are  more  than  nine. 
Inviting?  .  .  .  Rather. 


250      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  And  that's  not  all  our  well-known  festive  cheer  — 
There's  ivy  in  the  yard,  and  heaps  of  parsley. 
Come,  twine  some  in  your  hair  —  and  say,  old  dear, 
Don't  do  it  sparsely. 

"  The  flat's  all  ready  for  the  sacrifice ; 
In  every  corner  handy  to  display  it. 
There's  silver.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  house  looks  extra  nice, 
li  I  do  say  it. 

"  The  very  flame  is  trembling,  and  the  smoke 
Goes  whirling  upward  with  an  eager  rustling; 
The  household's  overrun  with  busy  folk. 
Just  see  them  hustling! 

"  What's  that.?     You  want  to  know  the  cause  of  this? 
Why,  it's  the  birthday  of  friend  P.  Maecenas; 
And  doubly  dear  because  the  season  is 
Sacred  to  Venus. 

"  Some  holiday .''     Some  holiday  is  right ! 

And  —  well,  my  Latin  heart  and  soul  are  in  it. 
Therefore  I  hope  you'll  be  on  hand  tonight  — 
Eh.?  .  .  .  Just  a  minute. 

"  Telephus  ?     Pah.     He  isn't  worth  a  thought  — 
If  Telly  dares  neglect  you,  dear,  why  —  let  him ! 
He's  nothing  but  a  giddy  good-for-nought. 
Come  and  forget  him. 

"  Come,  and  permit  your  grief  to  be  assuaged ; 

Forsake  this  flirt  on  whom  you  have  your  heart  set. 
Besides,  Dame  Rumor  hath  it  he's  engaged  — 
'  One  of  our  smart  set.' 


THE  JEST  OF  DEMOCRACY        251 

"  From  vain  desires  and  too  ambitious  dreams 

The  doom  of  Phaeton's  enough  to  scare  you.  .  .  . 
This  is  —  ahem  —  my   favorite  of  themes  — 
But,  dear,  I  spare  you. 

"  Come  then,  so  that  the  evening  may  not  lack 

Your  voice  that  makes  each  heart  a  willing  rover: 
And,  as  we  sing,  black  Care  will  grow  less  black  — 
Oh,  come  on  over. 

"Rather  does  the  thing,  doesn't  it.''  "  was  Ja- 
son's tag  to  his  reading. 

"  To  have  a  serious  poet,  the  passionate  singer 
of  beauty  and  humanity  of  such  poems  as  are  in 
the  collection  '  Challenge,'  try  his  hand,  and  suc- 
ceed so  conspicuously,  on  themes  and  in  a  manner 
here  presented,  lifts  parody  into  the  creative  sis- 
terhood of  poetic  art.  It  is,"  I  concluded,  "  one 
more  aspect  of  our  poetic  growth  and  develop- 
ment." 

"  That's  growing  to  be  an  old  wives'  tale," 
laughed  Psyche  as  we  came  out  on  the  road,  and 
returned  to  The  Farm. 


XII 

FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY 

Over  the  fields  and  woods  was  a  spirit  in  the 
air   which  had   been   gradually   settling  for  days 
past,  and  we  felt  it  keenly.     The  landscape  had 
grown  aloof  and  watchful;  you  noticed  it  more 
clearly  if  you  arose  early  in  the  morning,  when 
all  the  grass  and  trees  were  under  a  blanket  of 
thick,  glistening  dew.     Was  it  dew  or  mist?     It 
did  not  melt  then,  as  in  midsummer,  but  blew  away 
with  almost  a  visible  rush.     There  was  a  sharp- 
ness in  the  air  that  nibbled  at  one's  imagination. 
The   mountain    to    the   northwest    of    The    Farm 
lifted  its  head  of  cold  gray  blue  against  the  flat 
surface  of  a  sky  which  sharpened  every  shadow 
and  outline.     I  had  stayed  over  night  this  week 
at  The  Farm  to  finish  some  work  which  I  fancied 
would  be  b€tter  done  than  in  the  noisy  distraction 
of  the  town.     I  noticed,  on  my  early  walk,  that 
as  the  sun  rose  higher  and  higher  in  the  heavens, 
the  earth  passed  through  a  number  of  sudden  and 
visible  moods.     Instead  of  that  peaceful  mood  of 
midsummer  which  accompanies  the  progress  of  the 
forenoon,  the  countryside  grew  restless  and  mel- 
ancholy in  turn,  almost  taking  shape  and  action, 
giving  one  the  impression  that   Nature  had  as- 

252 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  253 

sumed  wild,  faun-like  emotions.  In  the  glinting 
sunlight  jou  could  almost  see  the  troubled,  alert 
eyes  of  a  faun ;  and  woods,  hills  and  valleys  were 
as  its  shaggy  limbs,  trying  to  evade  some  mys- 
terious spirits.  The  feeling  one  has  cannot  be 
described ;  one  can  only  make  fanciful  conjectures. 
There  is  little  that  is  so  illusory  about  the  com- 
ing of  autumn.  The  tinge  of  sadness  which  every- 
where touches  the  ripeness  of  things,  gives  a  tone 
of  vibrancy  to  Nature  which  is  provocative.  Its 
effect  upon  human  emotion  is  thrilling,  though  in 
a  subdued  key. 

I  had  gone  up  to  The  Farm  the  night  before 
and  after  tea  had  put  in  the  hours  till  midnight 
on  some  work.  Jason  came  up  earlier  than  usual 
the  next  day,  for  an  extra  hour,  as  he  said,  to 
watch  the  sharp  noon  sunshine  mellow  into  after- 
noon. "  It  is  all  in  the  tilt  of  the  shadows,"  he 
explained.  He  stood  on  the  porch  looking  to- 
wards the  east.  "  I  can't  describe  the  process  but 
I  seem  to  feel  a  pulse  that  beats  out  there  in  the 
grass,"  he  added,  "  and  I  know  the  earth  has 
made  another  swing  of  the  pendulum,  and  ticked 
somewhere  thousands  of  miles  beneath  its  surface. 
The  first  signs  of  that  tree's  shadow,"  he  pointed 
to  the  apple-tree  across  the  road,  "  lengthening 
eastward  is  the  registering  of  the  earth's  orienta- 
tion on  an  immense  scale.  And  I  feel  it  all  here," 
he  said,  tapping  his  breast,  "  like  a  soft,  seductive 
memory." 

Later  when  we  were  going  up  the  Derry  Road 
on  our  way  to  the  grove  I  discovered  how  deeply 


254.      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

we  had  all  fallen  under  the  spell  of  Jason's  mood. 
The  place  was  very  still,  all  the  live  and  enchant- 
ing sounds  of  midsummer  having  passed  with  the 
migration  of  the  tuneful  birds.  Splashes  of  color 
were  everywhere  becoming  more  prominent  in  the 
trees.  As  we  reached  the  cemetery  at  the  top  of 
the  road  we  stopped  to  look  upon  the  crumbling 
stones  the  weather  had  beaten  with  sun  and  rain 
and  wind  for  a  hundred  years  or  more.  Lean- 
ing against  the  fence  that  enclosed  the  cemetery 
Jason  began  quoting  some  lines  that  ran  like  this : 

"'  Set  on  this  hill  encircled  by  the  woods. 

Dreamless  in  death,  the  dead  sleep  here! 
Nature  around  them  in  her  changing  moods, 

Remembers,   though  we   forget,  who  held  them 
dear. 

"  I  half  believe  we  envy  them  their  rest, 

We  who  miss,  and   fumble,  grasp  and  lose  the 
prize: 
Man    betrays    us    living,    but    Nature's    bounteous 
breast. 
Takes  and  soothes  and  nurses  our  tired  hearts  and 
eyes." 

"  Whose  verse  is  that.^  "  asked  Psyche. 

"  Oh,  I  wanted  to  say  something  for  this  quiet 
.•spot  which  I  have  been  passing  all  summer,"  an- 
swered Jason. 

"  You  have  said  something  beautiful  for  it," 
Psyche  praised  him.  "  And  I  am  glad  because 
this  cemetery  was  on  our  land.  My  ancestors 
^ave  this  ground  for  a  burial  place  in  the  eight- 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  255 

eenth  century.  It  has  been  terribly  neglected 
for  a  long  time  now.  When  father  died  the  town 
folk  thought  it  strange  we  didn't  bury  him  here. 
But  I  like  your  poem  so  much." 

Jason  did  not  seem  to  hear  what  Psyche  had 
said.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  pensive  mood. 
Presently  he  began  to  quote  again.  We  heard 
these  lines: 

"  Turn  me  to  my  yellow  leaves, 
I   am  better  satisfied; 
There   is   something  in  me   grieves 
That   was   never   born,   and   died. 
Let   me   be   a   scarlet   flame 
On  a  windy  autumn  morn, 
I    who   never   had    a   name. 
Nor  from  a  breathing  image  born. 
From  the  margin  let  me  fall 
Where  the   faintest  stars  sink  down. 
And  the  void  consumes  me, —  all 
In  nothingness  to  drown. 
Let  me  dream  my  dream  entire. 
Withered  as  an  autumn  leaf  — 
Let  me  have  my  vain  desire. 
Vain,  as  it  is  brief." 

"  What  a  hopelessly  melancholy  mood,"  said 
Psyche  tenderly.  "  What  has  come  over  you, 
Jason.''  " 

"  All  this  life  that  we  live,  this  experience  that 
we  have  of  the  world,  are  nothing  but  foot-notes 
to  reality.  That  is  what  your  neglected  cemetery 
made  me  realize.  So  many  things  that  seem  vital 
and  serious  in  this  world  are  merely  commentaries 


256      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

on  a  text  we  cannot  read.  These  things  are  in 
our  own  tongue  —  these  trees,  this  road,  that 
goldenrod,  the  cattle  in  the  fields,  man  every- 
where, the  hills  amidst  which  he  roams,  the  cities 
that  he  builds,  the  seas  around  him  and  the  sky 
overhead  —  these,  I  repeat,  are  in  his  own  tongue, 
but  they  are  only  foot-notes  to  a  text  in  an  un- 
known language.  Ever  since  the  beginning  man 
has  tried  to  translate  the  language  of  the  spirit 
—  the  invisible,  immaterial  characters  of  another 
existence  that  is  as  real  as  our  own.  And  the  best 
he  has  ever  been  able  to  do  is  to  reproduce  sym- 
bols, to  imitate  signs,  and  create  visions  out  of  the 
substances  of  his  imagination  without  ever  having 
a  clear  and  convincing  revelation." 

We  moved  on  in  silence  reflecting  on  these  re- 
marks of  Jason's.  I  felt  a  sense  of  something 
vanishing  away;  the  solid  appearance  of  the 
ground,  the  trees,  of  objects  all  about  us;  and  of 
other  things  coming  into  material  existence, 
strange  and  luminous  images  from  another  world. 
I  could  see  the  yellow  September  sunshine  streak- 
ing the  shadowy  depths  of  the  woods,  a  radiance 
that  poured  through  from  some  mythical  source 
beyond  the  margin  of  time.  Cassandra,  I  could 
see,  was  plainly  puzzled  at  an  influence  she  could 
not  resist,  and  yet  against  which  she  would  not 
strive  through  speech.  Psyche  gave  herself  up  to 
the  spell  completely,  and  walked  as  one  accredited 
with  secrets.  Jason  had  absolute  dominion  over 
the  mystery  that  had  so  moved  him,  and  all  of  us 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  257 

might  have  been  ghosts  so  insensible  did  he  seem 
to  anything  earthly. 

It  was  almost  by  instinct  that  we  reached  and 
settled  ourselves  upon  the  ground  under  our 
chosen  pine  boughs.  Perhaps  it  was  the  singing 
of  the  brook  not  far  away,  or  it  may  have  been 
a  cone  dropping  upon  the  ground  breaking  the 
silence  around  us,  or  it  may  have  been  the  sud- 
den and  solitary  note  of  some  passing  bird  —  or 
again  it  may  have  been  none  of  these  things  but  a 
current  of  mental  reaction  flashing  through  the 
four  of  us  at  once  —  that  broke  the  spell.  We 
became  conscious  of  the  silence,  and  with  a  shade 
of  embarrassment  four  voices  fell  into  conversa- 
tion sounding  like  a  confusion  of  sentences.  I  can 
recollect  no  sense  of  what  was  said  except  my  own 
remark,  which  sounded  detached  and  furtive. 
The  humor  of  the  situation  became  clear  and 
everyone  laughed. 

"  Confound  it !  "  exclaimed  Jason  ;  "  what  a  bore 
it  is  to  be  serious.  It  is  a  private  virtue  that 
ought  never  to  become  a  public  nuisance.  When 
it  does,  it  proves  the  decay  of  happiness." 

"  The  decay  of  happiness  brings  about  the 
restoration  of  idealism,"  I  declared. 

"  You  are  both  talking  nonsense,"  Cassandra 
censured. 

"Please!"  begged  Psyche.     "Don't  spoil  it." 

"  Spoil  what.'^  "  asked  Jason. 

"  The  adventure.  Pulling  down  a  handful  of 
stars.     We  don't  reach  too  often,  and  when  we 


258      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

do,  let's  keep  the  sense  of  it,  the  thrilling  sense  of 
joy  that  it  gives." 

"  But  to  fall  back  empty-handed,  Psyche ;  don't 
you  think  of  that?  Such  a  performance  is  ridic- 
ulous —  and  hurts,"  said  Jason. 

"  I  prefer  to  think  that  some  of  us  feel  as  Wini- 
fred Maynard  expresses  it  in  that  brief  poem  '  In- 
vocation.'    She  sings, 

"  Come  to  me,   Passion,  and  shake  me ! 

Anger  or  Hatred  or  Love, 
Take  me  and  mold  me  or  break  me; 

Come  from  below  or  above. 
Lift  me  to  heaven  or  cast  me  to  hell, 

Whirl  me  through  outermost  space  — 
So  thou  remove  me  from  this  where  I  dwell. 

Plane  of  the  gray  commonplace !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Psyche,"  I  said.  "  You  have 
brought  us  to  a  sense  of  our  responsibility.  I 
want  to  talk  about  Winifred  Maynard.  Her 
book  has  interested  me  very  much ;  her  identity  has 
been  a  source  of  much  speculation. 

"  Fifteen  years  ago,"  I  continued,  "  an  English 
lady  had  published  two  volumes  of  exquisite 
poems.  They  were  named  '  Units  '  and  '  Fugi- 
tives.' The  poems  were  crystals  of  the  most  glit- 
tering illusions,  gems  of  the  first  water.  I  do 
not  know  anyone  of  the  past  fifteen  years,  in  Eng- 
land, who  intellectualized  emotion,  who  trans-sub- 
stantiated the  vaguest  and  most  elusive  moods  and 
visions,  into  such  recognizable  forms,  as  this  poet. 
She  had  an  intuition  that  was  literally  flashing; 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  259 

it  flashed  into  the  dark  corners  of  every  kind  of 
personal  mystery ;  or  upon  common  sights,  such 
as  a  landscape  or  a  flower ;  it  extracted  always  the 
crises,  where  the  invisible  and  dissolving  elements 
converged  with  tangible  appearances.  Her  art 
was  an  abstraction  that  became  a  reality ;  so 
much  so  that  wonder  was  a  mere  threshold  across 
which  she  came  and  went  between  the  inner  and 
outer  sense  of  the  world.  Like  all  great  spiritual 
artists  —  Blake,  or  Emily  Dickinson,  for  instance 
—  the  method  was  always  towards  compression 
in  her  poems.  This  method  is  essential  to  the 
poet  who  attempts  to  seize  and  hold  the  sudden 
and  escapable  fact  of  mystery:  to  catch,  as  it 
were,  the  inspiration  —  so  like  a  butterfly  —  in 
a  closely-woven  net  of  words.  Her  poems  were 
snatches,  often  fragments ;  but  only  these  as  the 
shattered  parts  of  a  great  wave.  The  expression 
was  as  perfect  as  form  could  be.  To  every  word 
and  rhythm  and  rhyme  was  given  its  exact  value 
in  color,  melody,  and  emotional  force.  Behind 
them  was  a  living  power  as  that  which  in  the  sea 
drives  the  wave.  I  have  never  seen  the  dawn  these 
past  fifteen  years  without  recalling  how  this  poet 
caught  for  me,  in  a  phrase,  the  mighty  impressive- 
ness  of  that  diurnal  movement.  She  said  the  dawn 
was  the  '  visible  delay  of  day.' 

"  This  lady,"  I  continued,  "  was  Winifred  Lu- 
cas, who  later  became  Madame  du  Ballay.  She 
vanished  from  poetic  activity.  I  believe  she  was 
a  sister  of  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas,  whose  delightful  es- 
says,  novels   and   compilations  have   won  him   a 


260      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

warm  place  in  the  affections  of  readers.  If  this 
poet  was  his  sister,  she  seems  to  have  fallen  entirely 
out  of  the  recollection  of  the  public.  It  is  a  little 
puzzling  that  no  one  seems  to  remember  her ;  and 
it  is  a  pity  because  her  art  is  exquisite  in  work- 
manship and  has  a  visionary  quality  full  of  spar- 
kling evocations." 

"  And  you  think  that  Winifred  Maynard  may 
be  Winifred  Lucas?"  asked  Jason. 

"  When  I  opened  the  '  Book  of  Winifred 
Maynard  '  and  read  that  '  the  author  of  this  book, 
who  is  now  dead,  was  a  real  woman,  although  Wini- 
fred Maynard  was  not  her  real  name,'  "  I  replied, 
"  I  caught  at  the  fancy  that  these  poems  might 
be  by  the  English  lady  of  whom  I  have  spoken. 
Reading  the  poems,  it  was  hard  not  to  be  con- 
vinced by  such  a  poem  as  '  To  a  Cyclamen '  or 
'  The  Reason,'  both  of  which  I  am  going  to  read 
in  the  order  named."  I  then  gave  the  first,  which 
ran: 

"  Purple  five-winged  butterfly. 

Poised  on  slender  stem. 
Springing  when  the  winds  pass  by, 

Wild  to  be  with  them  — 
Canst  thou  solve  the  riddle  I 
Ask  myself,  and  asking  sigh? 

"  What  I  would  be,  that  I  know ; 

What  I  am,  I   feel: 
Up  my  soul  would  striving  go 

Till  the  light  unseal 
All  its   close-shut  wonders  —  still 
Strength  is  wanting  to  the   will. 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  261 

"  Thou  wast  prisoned  in  the  earth. 

Thou  hast  left  thy  bed. 
Risen  up  to  life  and  mirth, 

Come  as  from  the  dead; 
All   thy   being   is    complete  — 
Wilt  not  tell   thy   secret,   sweet? 

"  Was  it  that  the  mighty  Sun 

From  his  place  on  high 
With  a  warm  swift  magic  won 

Where  thou,  weak,  didst  lie? 
Drew  thee  up,  by  gentle  spell. 
Nearer  to  himself  to  dwell? 

"  Would  that  thus  a  mighty  Love, 

Down  through  time  and  space 
Reaching,  might  fulfil  whereof 

Hints  thine  aery  grace  — 
Draw  me  up  from  cold  and  gloom 
Into   light   and   warmth   and   bloom !  " 

I  next  read  "  The  Reason  " : 

"  I  do  not  hate  the  woman 

Between   my   Love   and   me. 
Whose  right  in  him  is  guarded 
With  due  formality; 

"  Yet  her  I  would  not  pity 

And  I  would  bid  him  come. 
Had  I  not  seen  her  little  child  — 
But  now  desire  is  dumb. 

"  Her  little  son,  that  should  be  mine. 
Looked   up   in   startled   wise. 


262      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  '  Who  are  you  ?  '  he  said  to  me. 
His  father  in  his  eyes. 

''  There  are  numerous  other  resemblances,"  I 
added ;  "  the  response  of  both  poets  to  low-lying 
planes  of  communication,  where  commonplace  facts 
meet  and  merge  with  intimations  of  mystery. 
Either  poet  might  have  written  this  phrase  — 
which  happens  to  be  from  Winifred  Maynard's 
book  — '  I  feel  the  cold  shiver  of  spiritual  things.' 
It  is  typical  of  an  attitude  in  both  poets,  which 
finds  it  difficult  to  reconcile  contemplation  and  ex- 
perience. The  line  occurs  in  a  poem  called  '  In- 
stinct and  Reason,'  a  rather  brave  and  frank  ex- 
amination of  the  poet's  faith.  The  poem  also  has 
a  certain  eerie  quality  which  is  less  impressive  with 
fear  than  defiance."     Then  I  read: 

(The  black  night  is  falling  from  a  cold  gray  sky, 
And  the  wild  wind  is  calling  as  he  passes  by ; 
He  whistles  '  Follow,'  and  upon  his  track 
Through  the  darkness  hollow  speeds  a  demon  pack !) 

"  Thus  and  thus  the  poet  saith : 
Pleasant  words  are  these. 
And  their  music  murmureth 
Like  a  meadow  breeze  — 
Life  is  laughter;  as  for  Death, 
It  is  dreamless  ease. 

"  (The  spirits  in  prison  are  loosed  for  to-night  — 
From  their  graves  they  are  risen;  their  steps  are  so 

light 
The  long  churchyard  grasses  bend  not  to  their  tread, 
As  to  and  fro  passes  the  Dance  of  the  Dead !) 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  263 

"  Is  it  not  a  foolish  thing, 

Day  and  night  to  fret 
Over  that  which  Time  must  bring: 

And  more  foolish  yet, 
Load  the  happy  Present's  wing 

With  an  old  Regret? 

"  (The    window    was    darkened  —  what    was    That 
looked  in? 
Sure  it  stopped  and  hearkened,  seeking  for  its  kin; 
Moving  in  the  curtain  Something  took  its  place  — 
Ah,  but  I  am  certain  once  I  knew  that  face!) 

"  As  for  angel  or  for  ghost, 

God  and  heaven  and  hell. 
Such  are  nothing  more  at  most 

Than  a  tale  we  tell; 
Let  the   fool  believe  —  thy  boast. 

Reason  balanced  well. 

"  (The  darkness  is  burning  behind  me  with  eyes; 
It  needs  not  my  turning  —  I  know  otherwise ; 
The  air  is  aquiver  with  rustle  of  wings, 
And  I  feel  the  cold  shiver  of  spiritual  things!)" 

"  As  a  woman,"  said  Cassandra,  "  I  am  particu- 
larly interested  in  the  revelation  this  poet-woman 
makes  of  her  soul-history.  She  divides  her  poems 
into  three  groups,  and  calls  them  '  Asleep,' 
*  Dreaming,'  and  '  Awake.'  They  have  the  sig- 
nificance of  informing  the  reader  that  this  woman's 
life  was  a  gradual  transformation  through  which 
the  current  of  her  experience  passed  from  aspira- 
tion to  assumption.     From  seventeen  to  thirty  the 


m4i      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

poems  were  written,  so  the  short  prefatory  note 
tells  us.  It  is  singularly  interesting  to  observe 
that  the  final  group  of  poems,  the  poems  that  have 
that  assumptive  quality  to  which  I  referred,  dwells 
upon  the  vicissitudes  of  love.  In  these  I  find  a 
heart-breaking  story;  not  one  of  common  disillu- 
sion, of  passion,  of  unfulfilment.  They  accom- 
plish what  few  such  recitals  accomplish,  and  that 
is  an  understanding,  the  understanding  of  a  soul 
whom  life  has  hurt,  but  has  made  more  perfect  in 
the  hurting.  And  through  it  the  stain  which  of- 
fended morality  bestows  upon  such  an  experience, 
is  somehow  washed  away  by  the  purity  and 
strength  of  passion.  Such  a  poem  as  '  Saint 
Catherine,'  in  which  the  spotless  virginity  of  the 
saint  is  made  ashamed  by  the  pitiful  ghosts,  who 
whisper  their  humanity  to  her  in  a  dream,  this 
poem  is  a  striking  example  of  the  daring  truth 
this  poet  is  not  afraid  to  speak.  Neither  pity  nor 
charity  should  we  offer  to  this  figure  of  truth  in 
her  mournful  and  abandoned  circumstance;  but 
sympathy  and  fellowship.  Let  the  poet  speak  for 
that  great  company  of  sisters  whom  the  world 
blames  living  and  canonizes  dead."  And  Cas- 
sandra read: 

"  White  Saint  Catherine  stirred  in  her  sleep, 
Moved  in  her  maiden  bed, 
For  ghosts  came  stealing  from  darkness  deep. 
Bending  above  her  head; 

"  Ghosts  of  women  loving  and  loved  — 
Love  was  their  only  vow  — 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  265 

Each  at  her  breast  had  a  burden  that  moved. 
And  a  brand  upon  her  brow. 

"White  Saint  Catherine  frowned  in  her  sleep: 
*  Why  do  you  come  to  me, 
You  who  have  lost  what  I  straitly  keep. 
Spotless  virginity  ?  ' 

"  White  Saint  Catherine  sighed  full  deep; 
'  But  what  are  those  you  bear. 
By  the  warmth  of  your  bosoms  lulled  asleep; 
And  that  —  beneath  your  hair?' 

"  White  Saint  Catherine  wept  in  her  sleep : 
'  Black  was  your  sin,  no  doubt. 
But  surely  the  pain  of  your  shame  was  deep, 
And  tears  may  wash  it  out.' 

"  Then  turned  the  ghosts,  all  whispering 
Like  wind  in  the  poplar  leaves: 
*  What  words  are  these  from  this  poor  pale  thing? 
It  is  for  us  she  grieves ! 

"  '  Truly  our  fingers  were  bare  of  rings. 
But  we  have  not  done  amiss ; 
We  obeyed  the  voice  of  the  eldest  of  things. 
The  Life  that  was  and  is. 

"  '  Truly  the  pain  of  our  shame  was  great. 
And  the  brand  the  world  has  set  — 
The  world  we  travailed  to  recreate  — 
Is  on  our  foreheads  yet; 

"  '  But  the  pain  of  our  shame  is  long  since  past. 
And  we  are  comforted  — 
For  that  which  we  gave  we  still  hold  fast, 
And  dying  we  are  not  dead ! ' 


266      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  And  again  and  again,"  continued  Cassandra, 
"  in  poems  like  '  The  Barren  Stock,'  *  Answer,' 
'But  in  the  Night,—'  *A  Sapphic,'  and  'The 
Slave,'  this  woman-poet  lays  bare  the  living,  quiv- 
ering soul  of  a  woman.  The  entire  history  of  her 
own  personal  passion  is  inscribed  in  these  lines  on 
'  Tomorrow ' : 

"  Now   I   will  forget  all  passion  and  put  aside  all 

pain. 
And  peace  in  the  former  fashion  shall  visit  my  soul 

again ; 
I  will  have  done  with  turning  old  memories  o'er 

and  o'er. 
And  done  with  the  fruitless  yearning  to  look  on  one 

face  once  more; 
The  thought  shall  no  longer  hurt  me  of  the  living 

bar  between. 
For  I  will  be  brave  and  assert  me,  now  that  the 

world  grows  green. 

"  Now  I  will  look  out  on  the  growing  and  see  how 

good  it  is. 
The   green   and   the   gold  just  showing  under  the 

April  kiss, 
The  white  magnolia  flower  against  a  dreamy  sky, 
And  the  soft  slow-dripping  shower,  a  veil  drawn 

gently  by  — 
These   are  the  drug  for   sorrow   and   I   will  drink 

them  deep: 
I  will  drink  them  deep  to-morrow;  till  then  I  desire 

to  weep." 

"  '  These  poems,'  "  I  followed  Cassandra,  quot- 
ing from  the  foreword  to  "  The  Book  of  Winifred 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  267 

Maynard,"  "  '  were  written  for  herself,  and  shown 
to  a  very  few  people.'  Whoever,"  I  added,  "  is  re- 
sponsible for  their  publication,  has  done  a  wise 
thing.  Life,  evidently,  was  very  real  to  Winifred 
Maynard,  and  her  poetry  shows  it.  I  think  they 
will  find  many  readers  to  appreciate  and  admire 
them,  and  who  will  have  no  little  curiosity  about 
the  woman  who  wrote  them.  She  is  dead,  but  her 
spirit  is  made  vividly  alive  in  these  transcriptions 
of  her  experience,  and  she  will  always  live  in  the 
personal  history  of  these  lovely  and  touching 
poems." 

As  soon  as  I  had  stopped  speaking,  Psyche  be- 
gan quoting  these  lines : 

"  Out  of  my  living 
Grew  my  songs. 
Back  I  am  giving 
What  life  gave  to  me. 
Unto  the  sower 
The  harvest  belongs. 
Earth  keeps  the  vision 
Of  harvests  to  be." 

"  A  testament  of  life  and  living/'  exclaimed  Ja- 
son. "  Those  lines  of  Miss  Burr  which  serve  as 
a  postlude  to  her  volume  indicate  the  preoccupa- 
tion of  most  of  our  women  poets  in  America.  The 
men,  to  quote  David  O'Neil's  phrase,  are  chiefly 
concerned  with  '  the  frankness  of  desire,'  but  the 
women  are  full  of  the  frankness  of  living.  Sup- 
pose you  give  us  a  little  lecture  on  Miss  Burr's 
poetry,"  suggested  Jason.  "  You  know  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  once  in  Rome,  travelling  with  her 


268      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

mother.  I  think  it  was  the  same  year  I  ran  across 
Louis  V.  Ledoux  and  his  charming  wife  in  Italy 
just  before  they  started  for  Spain,  and  he  told  of 
having  met  A.  E.  Housman  of  the  '  Shropshire 
Lad,'  on  a  train,  and  that  the  Englishman  con- 
fessed that  the  only  American  poet  he  knew  was 
Witter  Bynner.  .  .  .  But  I  am  rambling  on  while 
Psyche  and  Cassandra  are  patiently  waiting  to 
hear  what  you  have  to  say  about  Miss  Burr's 
poetry." 

"  Why  do  you  elect  me  to  lecture,  as  you  call 
it,  about  Miss  Burr's  poetry?"  I  asked  Jason. 
"  Don't  you  like  her  work?  And  you,  too,"  I  ad- 
dressed Psyche  and  Cassandra  in  turn. 

"  Of  course,  we  do,"  they  answered  in  chorus. 
And  then  Jason  added:  "But  you  talk  about  it 
with  such  enthusiasm,  that  you  make  us  see  quali- 
ties that  might  escape  us.  Your  whole  attitude 
towards  criticism  is  a  personal  discovery,  and  it  is 
based  upon  an  enthusiasm  so  intense.  I  am  will- 
ing to  charge  that  enthusiasm  has  its  vices,  but 
they  are  nothing  to  the  sound  virtue  it  possesses. 
It's  nothing  but  a  love  of  life,  after  all, —  love 
following  life  in  its  manifestations  through  the  art 
of  poetry." 

"  I  am  grateful  for  your  opinion,  Jason,"  I 
said,  "  but  enthusiasm  is  a  gift  of  nature,  like  the 
quality  of  a  sense, —  taste,  sight,  or  touch, —  hav- 
ing both  its  limitations  and  advantages." 

"  Well,  since  nature  has  not  overlooked  Miss 
Burr  with  her  most  precious  gifts,  tell  us  about 
them,"  Psyche  generously  urged. 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  269 

"  The  inappropriate  title  which  Miss  Burr  gives 
to  her  third  book  of  verse,"  I  began,  "  casts  an  un- 
just reflection  upon  her  work  in  the  two  volumes 
that  preceded  it.  I  do  not  mean  that  the  title 
is  inappropriate  for  the  contents;  the  substance 
of  the  poems  in  this  volume  is  full  of  life  and  liv- 
ing, but  of  both  so  intensely  and  exquisitely,  that 
some  phrase  more  symbolic  and  alluring  than  the 
naked  words  employed,  should  label  the  collection. 
In  her  two  previous  volumes  this  was  adequately 
and  alluringly  accomplished.  One  is  almost  led 
to  ask  does  this  new  title  imply  that  the  key  of 
experience  is  struck  for  the  first  time,  soundly  and 
significantly,  in  Miss  Burr's  poetic  career.'*  That 
would  be  a  prodigious  mistake.  One  has  only  to 
re-read  those  two  earlier  volumes,  as  I  have  in  the 
past  week,  to  realize  how  wrong  such  a  point  of 
view  would  be.  In  '  The  Roadside  Fire,'  and  '  In 
Deep  Places,'  there  is  an  overflowing  conviction  in 
such  poems  as  '  The  Loser,'  '  Battle-Song  of  Fail- 
ure,' '  From  Far  Away,'  '  To  Her  —  Unspoken,' 
'  In  the  Roman  Forum,'  '  Jehane,'  *  Allah  is  With 
the  Patient,'  '  Petruchio's  Wife,'  and  '  A  Lyn- 
mouth  Widow,' —  a  spiritual  assurance  of  life's 
important  hold  upon  the  poet's  art.  But  the 
poet  will  have  the  mead  of  her  further  experi- 
ence with  life  registered,  and  so  what  we  realize  in 
these  new  poems  is  a  growth  towards  the  ultimate 
solutions  of  human  fate,  through  a  sterner  per- 
ception of  realities.  I  mean  that  Miss  Burr  has 
applied  a  more  cleansing  rectitude  to  her  emotions. 
I   mean   nothing  dubious   by   that.     Her    fervent 


270      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

sympathies  with  Hfe,  grown  deeper,  has  also  grown 
steadier.  Her  new  work  is  all  the  more  important 
because  she  no  longer  allows  impulsiveness  to  com- 
promise spiritual  force.  Her  impulsiveness  is  a 
part  of  her  poetic  charm.  It  is  an  adorable  es- 
sence in  her  art.  But  the  difference  she  presents 
is,  that  it  no  longer  vanishes  off  into  moods  that 
grow  vague  as  a  distant  echo.  The  rather  full- 
bodied  sound  here  compels  attention.  Compels 
attention  sometimes  with  a  shock.  And  the  reader 
comes  to  with  a  surprising  conviction  that  the 
mood  has  palpitated  with  truth.  Now  the  truth 
may  be  feverish  with  regret,  as  in  that  astounding 
bit  of  illumination  called  '  The  Flirt,'  which  can- 
not be  too  often  quoted : 

"  Beautiful  boy,  lend  me  your  youth  to  play  with ; 

My  heart  is  old. 
Lend  me  your  fire  to  make  my  twilight  gay  with, 

To  warm  my  cold. 
Prove  that  the  power  my  look  has  not  forsaken  — 

That  when  I  will 
My  touch  can  quicken  pulses  and  awaken 

Man's  passion  still. 

"  The  moment  that  I  ask  you  need  not  grudge  me  — 

I  shall  not  stay. 
I  shall  be  gone,  ere  you  have  time  to  judge  me. 

My  empty  way. 
I  am  not  worth  remembering,  little  brother. 

Even  to  damn. 
One  kiss  .  .  .  oh,  God !  if  only  I  were  other 

Than  what  I  am! 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  271 

Or  it  may  be  of  another  kind,  like  the  weakness  — 
was  it  weakness  or  just  the  madness  of  human 
hunger  breaking  from  the  restrictions  which  the 
conventions  of  Hfe  imposed?  —  of  the  bank  clerk 
in  '  Free,'  who  brought  his  own  triumph  to  such  a 
sordid  and  repentant  end.  I  dare  say,  that  it  is 
here  where  the  poet  shows  her  advance :  she  doesn't 
flinch  from  truth,  even  when  it  leads  her  to  these 
veiled  and  unmentionable  retreats  of  the  human 
spirit. 

"  And  this  fearless  observation  of  life,"  I  con- 
tinued, "  is  reflected  in  the  collection  throughout, 
even  when  the  theme  is  nothing  like  so  realistically 
conceived  as  in  '  The  Flirt '  or  '  Free.'  Take  her 
poem  on  '  Brother  Angelico,'  and  note  the  thor- 
oughly human  substance  she  gives  that  ethereal 
painter  when  working  on  his  Madonna.  He  had 
drawn  her  as  an  abstraction,  unsatisfying  to  the 
deep  human  need  in  himself;  but  at  the  last  he 
conceived  her  as  a  woman,  a  mother,  giving  a 
miraculous  impulse  to  human  nature.  She  makes 
him  say, 

"  I  began  to  draw 
A  woman's  face  —  Saint  Lucy's,  it  may  be ; 
I  have  forgotten ;  'tis  no  matter  now  — 
But  when  I  came  to  the  complacent  mouth 
I  smeared  its  shallow  beauty  swiftly  out. 
Again  I  drew,  again  effaced  my  work, 
And  then  a  sudden  madness  blazed  in  me. 
I  struck  my  hand  against  the  window-bars 
Till  the  blood  came  —  then  with  the  point  red-dipped 


272      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

I  drew  again.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can  see  it  still, 

The  gracious  holiness  that  smiled  on  me ! 

No  —  not  a  smile  —  a  wise  grave  tenderness 

More  sweet  than  any  smile.     My  hand  went  on 

As  if  a  spirit  held  it  —  drew  the  throat, 

The  shoulder's  flowing  line  of  loveliness, 

The  shrine  of  the  deep  bosom  —  surely  there 

Was  an  unrecognized  memory  of  the  breast 

That  gave  me  life,  my  fair  young  mother's,  dead 

When  I  was  still  too  new  to  life  to  guess 

What  dying  meant.     How  else  could  I  have  known? 

And  there  upon  that  sweet  and  sacred  curve 

A  little  clinging  hand  —  a  baby's  cheek.  .  .  . 

Unveiled,  she  shone  upon  my  dazzled  eyes, 

She  whom  unwitting  I  had  called  to  sight. 

Life,  Life  incarnate.     Make  it  plain  who  can 

Or  let  it  be  as  miracles  must  be. 

An  awful  rapture  beyond  questioning  — 

But  this  I  know.     I  bowed  my  head,  I  swayed 

Forward,  half-fainting,  toward  the  canvas  —  then  .  .  . 

It  was  not  canvas  where  my  cheek  found  rest. 

And  sweet  —  ah,  sweeter  than  the  harps  of  heaven 

And  holier  than  all  my  thoughts  of  God 

I  heard  her  voice. 

"  *  Why  hast  thou  feared  me,  son .'' 
Why  hast  thou  fled  from  me,  Angelico.^' 
Rest  on  this  bosom  that  has  fed  the  world 
And  know  that  I  am  good.     Lo,  I  am  Life. 
To  some  I  seem  a  terrible  goddess,  fierce 
And  cruel  —  but  they  do  not  understand. 
'Tis  their  own  hearts  that  scourge  them  to  their  doom. 
Unto  those  who  see  me  as  I  am, 
I  am  The  Mother,  and  my  Son  is  Love. 
To  see  me  as  thou  seest  is  to  know  me. 
To  understand  through  love  is  to  possess. 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  273 

No  longer  yearn  for  what  thou  hast  forgone. 

My  mortal  bounty.     Thou  hast  chosen  my  soul  — 

Translate  that  soul  unto  a  waiting  world. 

Verily,  verily,  I  say  to  thee 

That  there  are  many  who  have  done  my  work. 

Sown  my  seed  and  raised  my  fruit,  who  wait 

For  thee,  unmated  dreamer,  to  reveal 

The  meaning  of  their  labor  and  their  love.'  " 

"  What  a  noble  conception,  an  exalted  vision, 
is  in  that,"  interpolated  Psyche. 

"  Now  I  turn  to  another  poem,"  I  went  on  after 
Psyche's  praise,  "  '  Ulysses  in  Ithaca,'  in  which 
Miss  Burr,  with  a  simplicity  so  overwhelmingly 
full  that  it  not  only  reaches,  but  strikes  beyond 
perfection,  produces  a  quiveringly  human  experi- 
ence. I  will  quote  merely  the  first  stanza,  and 
note  particularly  the  last  seven  lines : 

"  Ithaca,  Ithaca,  the  land  of  my  desire ! 
I'm  home  again  in  Ithaca,  beside  my  own  hearth- 
fire. 
Sweet  patient  eyes  have  welcomed  me  all  tenderness 

and  truth, 
Wherein    I    see    kept   sacredly    the    visions    of   my 
youth  — 
Yet  sometimes,  even  as  I  hear  the  calm 
Deep  breathing  of  Penelope  at  rest 
Beside  me  —  cravingly  my  empty  palm 
Curves  to  the  memory  of  Calypso's  breast. 
Ah,  wild  immortal  mistress !     With  a  smile 
You  crowned  my  passion  as  a  goddess  can. 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  regain  your  isle  — 
Nor  would  I  lose  remembrance,  being  man. 


274      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

I  think  there  is  a  stroke  of  pure  genius  in  the  ex- 
pression of  the  seventh  and  eighth  lines.  Here  is 
an  idea  dissociated  with  reality  so  poignantly  that 
it  makes  the  sharpness  of  memory  stand  out  with 
vividness;  it  gathers  into  an  embodiment  a  world 
of  tragic  consciousness,  and  all  rooted  invisible  in 
the  most  fiery  chronicle  of  life. 

"  To  focus  this  mood  so  superbly,  is  an  achieve- 
ment of  sheer  beauty.  You  know  that  the  poet  is 
initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  life.  The  proba- 
tionary period  is  over.  Where  we  have  been  suf- 
fused with  ardor  and  fervency,  we  suddenly  realize 
a  strain  of  spontaneous  passion.  Where  fancy 
has  delighted  us,  we  find  the  glow  of  imagination 
and  vision  broadening  the  vistas  of  the  spirit. 
Let  me  bring  forward,"  I  appealed  to  my  listeners, 
"  as  a  justification  of  these  statements,  two  of 
Miss  Burr's  poems  which  sustain  —  would  sustain 
any  poet's  —  her  highest  qualities.  They  are  the 
narrative,  '  Mary  of  Egypt,'  and  the  memorial 
lines  '  The  Poppies.'  The  first  tells  the  story  of 
the  Alexandrian  Mary  who,  trying  to  seduce 
Christ,  was  redeemed  from  harlotry  through  the 
Galilean's  mystical  influence.  The  gradual  steps 
by  which  she  attained  to  spiritual  salvation  is  what 
renders  the  poem  most  significant.  The  most 
poignant  part  of  the  narrative  are  those  stanzas 
which  tell  how  Mary  paid  her  passage  from  Alex- 
andria to  Palestine.  The  cunning  subtlety  of 
Arthur  Symons  could  not  have  devised  it  more 
pathetically: 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  275 

"Mary  of  Egypt  walked  by  the  sea; 
Her  lids  were  heavy  with  tears  and  wine, 
And  she  saw  a  ship  that  rocked  at  the  quay 
Spreading  the  sail  for  the  far  blue  brine. 
The  Captain  smiled  when  he  saw  her  there, 
And  blew  a  kiss  to  the  harlot  fair. 

'  Where  are  you  bound,  sir  Captain  —  where .'' ' 
*  To  the  land  of  Palestine.' 

"  Mary  of  Egypt  leapt  from  the  shore 
As  the  ship  cast  off  her  ropes  from  the  land. 
The  captain  paled  and  the  captain  swore. 
But  he  held  her  safe  by  the  small  soft  hand. 
'  Girl,  are  you  sick  of  life,'  he  cried, 
*  To  spring  to  peril  as  groom  to  bride  ?  ' 

'  Die  I  must  unless  I  ride 

To  the  port  where  your  course  is  planned ! ' 

How  will  you  pay  your  passage-fee  ?  ' 
'  Silver  and  gold  I  left  behind  — 
Will  you  not  take  me  for  charity  ?  ' 
'  Charity's  cold  —  I  have  in  mind 
A  pleasanter  coin  for  you  to  pay.' 
Loathing  she  shrank  from  his  touch  away. 
But  if  she  would  go  she  must  needs  obey 
And  give  him  his  will  when  he  said,  '  Be  kind ! ' 

"  So  at  length  to  her  goal  she  came  — 
Weary  and  long  was  the  way  for  her ! 
Sick  and  haggard  with  grief  and  shame, 
Driven  by  hope  with  a  scarlet  spur. 
Pilgrims  passing,  she  followed  them 
Up  to  the  city  Jerusalem, 
Where  shone  like  the  pearl  of  a  diadem 
The  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


276      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

The  final  triumph  of  the  woman  over  her  past  life 
is  deeply  touching.  Her  soul  purged,  she  '  be- 
held her  Lord,  becoming  for  all  future  time  the 
symbol  of  sin,  pity,  and  forgiveness. 

"  If  all  the  inner  elements  of  Miss  Burr's  art 
have  strengthened,"  I  finished,  "  as  these  quota- 
tions, in  my  opinion  show,  so  has  the  expression 
gained  a  firmer  texture,  a  phrasing  more  substan- 
tial. Her  fault  has,  perhaps,  been  a  musical  ex- 
cess ;  a  tendency  sometimes  to  spin  rhyme  and 
rhythm  on  a  frail  stick  of  substance.  She  was 
capable,  when  the  mood  had  exhausted  itself,  of 
bringing  up  its  shadow.  The  result  was  often 
delightful,  in  the  sense  of  dexterously  turning  a 
neat  cadence,  which  finally  echoed  off  into  senti- 
ment. Her  best  poems  in  previous  collections 
showed,  however,  that  this  was  purely  a  fault,  as 
a  fault  may  be  of  one  kind  or  another  with  true 
poets.  Those  faults  are  not  to  be  insisted  upon 
as  representative.  What  is  representative,  are 
those  qualities  which  compel  us  to  accept  the 
lesser  good  with  the  greater.  Miss  Burr's  place 
is  high  among  contemporary  poets.  She  com- 
mands a  technique  of  admirable  simplicity;  she 
has  an  instinctive  ear  for  music.  Her  power  for 
visualization  is  of  a  high  order.  She  sings  in  the 
truest  sense;  being  a  suggester  and  interpreter  of 
life  and  experience." 

When  we  reached  the  edge  of  the  woods  on  our 
way  back  to  The  Farm,  Jason  remarked :  "  Miss 
Burr's  poem  makes  a  very  good  commentary  on  the 


FOOTNOTES  TO  REALITY  277 

text  of  the  mysteries  that  move  us  in  this  adven- 
ture called  life." 

"  Yes,"    Psyche    added,    "  dream    within    sub- 
stance, reality  in  the  shadow." 


XIII 

ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  vo 

Crossing  the  field  in  front  of  the  house  on  the 
way  to  the  woods  I  was  walking  a  little  ahead  of 
my  companions  thinking  of  the  change  that  had 
come  over  the  earth  as  the  days  slipped  out  of 
summer's  lap  into  the  arms  of  autumn.  The 
scenes  around  me  I  had  learned  to  love  for  their 
warm,  intimate  quality,  a  characteristic  of  the 
New  Hampshire  landscape.  It  was  a  still,  quiet 
country  of  broad-acred  farms  and  woods,  with 
few  main  roads,  the  principal  one  zigzagging  its 
distance  of  eighteen  miles  from  Nashua  to  Man- 
chester. This  main  artery  of  travel  between  the 
two  cities  lay  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Merrimac 
River,  and  almost  continuously  for  ten  or  twelve 
miles  the  woods  ran  parallel  to  it,  sometimes  but 
a  few  yards  away,  and  at  its  furthest  not  more 
than  half  a  mile.  The  Farm  was  at  this  furthest 
point,  the  highway  running  through  it,  with  the 
house  setting  a  few  feet  back  on  its  western  side. 
The  mellow  sunlight  of  the  September  afternoon 
flooded  the  scene,  and  though  every  object  near  us 
lay  or  stood  unconcealed,  there  was  a  retiring 
mood  in  nature  which  had  put  me  in  a  deferential 
attitude  towards  the  landscape.     We  went  through 

278 


ROMANTICS :  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       279 

the  stile  and  out  upon  the  car  tracks,  following 
them  for  a  short  distance,  when  we  turned  into 
the  Derry  Road.  For  the  first  time,  I  noticed 
that  the  screen  of  leaves  along  the  border  of  the 
woods  was  not  so  effective  in  shutting  out  the  view 
that  lay  behind.  The  pruning  hand  of  nature 
was  already  at  work,  and  those  hardwood  maples 
and  oaks,  trees  which  lose  their  leaves  earliest, 
were  opening  vistas  through  the  branches.  On 
the  ground  the  crimson  and  yellow  leaves  lay  like 
a  patchwork.  Except  for  the  aster  and  golden- 
rod,  the  flowers  were  gone  from  the  roadside. 
The  scene  gave  me  the  first  faint  impression  of 
melancholy  which  deepens,  day  by  day,  as  the 
autumnal  season  waxes.  We  said  nothing  as  we 
walked,  and  that  was  significant :  something  in  us 
needed  adjusting  to  the  spirit  surrounding  us, 
and  until  the  accomplishment,  silence  w^as  the 
guardian  of  our  friendly  advance.  By  the  time 
we  reached  the  grove  there  was  a  feeling  of  se- 
curity in  nature's  good  will,  for  the  place  had 
never  seemed  to  welcome  our  presence  with  such 
a  gracious  expression.  That  impression  of  mel- 
ancholy I  had  felt  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  had 
not  entered  this  spot.  It  was  friendlier  than  ever 
during  the  midsummer  days.  Quieter  because 
most  of  the  birds  had  departed ;  this  did  not  leave 
the  place  desolated,  or  give  it  an  air  of  forsaken 
loneliness.  Instead  it  had  the  feeling  of  a  room 
when  all  but  a  few  of  the  large  company  of  guests 
had  gone,  and  the  hostess,  with  the  remaining  inti- 
mates, lingered  over  the  tea-cups  in  cosy  friend- 


280      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

ship  and  easy  flowing  conversation.  We  felt  this 
hospitality  in  the  atmosphere  around  our  im- 
mense pine.  And  we  were  very  happy  and  con- 
tented with  it. 

"Well,  is  no  one  going  to  begin?"  Cassandra 
broke  the  spell  which  seemed  to  hold  us  captured 
to  silence. 

"  Suppose  we  let  Jason  do  that,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes,"  approved  Psyche.  "  I  think  it  is  Ja- 
son's turn  to  give  us  a  lecture,  and  as  he  is  a 
great  admirer  of  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell,  I  think 
he  might  have  exclusive  rights  to  her  volume." 

"  I  never  lectured  in  my  life,"  protested  Jason. 

"  But  you  talk  a  great  deal,  and  it  nearly 
amounts  to  the  same  thing,"  Psyche  replied. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  for  telling  me  of  my  worst 
vice,"  he  sarcastically  returned. 

"  It  only  becomes  a  vice  when  you  are  sarcastic 
and  cynical,"  Psyche  told  him. 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  we  want  to  hear  what  you've 
got  to  say  for  '  The  Night  Court  and  Other 
Verse.'  " 

"  Suppose  I  surprise  you  and  become  very 
earnest  about  this  poet?  You  know  I  believe  she 
has  a  distinctly  fresh  vision,  and  an  entirely  in- 
dividual way  of  expressing  herself,"  he  said. 

"  We  would  desire  nothing  better  from  you, 
Jason,  than  earnestness,"  Psyche  replied. 

Jason  took  no  notice  of  the  remark.  With  a 
funny  gesture  he  leaned  forward  and  began  to 
talk.  "  We  must  not  be  misled  by  the  claims  put 
forward  for  Miss  Mitchell's  art,  that  its  chief  sig- 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       281 

nificance  is  by  way  of  being  '  informed  throughout 
by  the  spirit  of  communal  sympathy  and  social 
purpose.'  Again,  we  must  not,  I  think,  qualify 
the  eager  purpose  that  seeks  to  capitalize  the 
titular  poem,  '  The  Night  Court,'  on  the  popu- 
larity which  attended  a  social  document,  '  The 
Man  with  the  Hoe,'  and  set  the  fashion  for  sen- 
timentalizing oppression  and  injustice,  nearly 
twenty  j^ears  ago.  We  may  go  to  any  extent  that 
is  desirable,  in  sympathizing  with  the  spirit  of 
*  communal  sympathy  and  social  purpose  ' ;  but 
we  have  a  right  to  stand  rigidly  against  the  senti- 
mentality which  has  become  even  more  of  an  arti- 
fice, than  sentimentality  in  love,  with  contemporary 
poets.  The  true  poet  of  social  injustice  must 
rise  from  the  bitter  experience  of  that  injustice; 
the  spirit,  rather  than  the  embodiment,  of  that 
experience  must  be  seared  with  passion ;  the  pas- 
sion which  forges  its  form  from  the  molten  iron  of 
suffering.  The  difference  is  the  difference  between 
the  social  chants  of  Ebenezer  Elliot  and  William 
Morris ;  between  the  poems  of  Arturo  Giovannitti 
and  Morris  Rosenfeld,  and  all  the  spiritually  and 
physically  comfortable  and  habited  poets  of  to- 
day, who  look  upon  the  reverse  side  of  social  con- 
ditions. 

"  I  deny  Miss  Mitchell  nothing  of  her  sincere 
effort  in  '  The  Night  Court.'  Yet  how  much  more 
does  she  do  than  poetize  the  old,  old  sermon,  *  Let 
him  who  is  without  sin  cast  the  first  stone ' .'' 
Morally  we  should  attach  the  greatest  importance 
to   the   sermon,   but    art   takes    another   account. 


282      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

which  demands  that  the  sermon  be  not  obstrusive. 
And  it  is  not  obtrusive  merely  because  it  is  be- 
lieved in,  but  because  that  belief  becomes  a  state- 
ment rather  than  a  gesture  of  faith,  a  flourish 
of  conviction.  Take  the  conclusion  of  Miss 
Mitchell's  poem  and  see  how  the  sermonizing  ele- 
ment enters: 

"  Let's  call  the  code  — 
That  facile  thing  they've  fashioned  to  their  mode; 
Smug  sophistries  that  smother  and  befool, 
That  numb  and  stupify;  that  clumsy  thing 
That  measures  mountains  with  a  three-foot  rule. 
And  plumbs  the  ocean  with  a  pudding  string  — 
The  little,  brittle  code.     Here  is  the  root. 
Far  out  of  sight  and  buried  safe  and  deep. 
And  Rose  Costara  is  the  bitter  fruit. 
On  every  limb  and  leaf,  death,  ruin,  creep. 

So,  lady   novelist,  go   home   again. 

Rub  biting  acid  on  your  little  pen. 

Look  back  and  out  and  up  and  in,  and  then 

Write  that  it  is  no  job  for  pruning-shears. 

Tell  them  to  dig  for  years  and  years  and  years 

The  twined  and  twisted  roots.     Blot  out  the  page; 

Invert  the  blundering  order  of  the  age ; 

Reverse  the  scheme :  the  last  shall  be  the  first. 

Summon  the  system,  starting  with  the  worst  — 

The  lying,  dying  code !     On,  down  the  line. 

The  city  and  the  court,  the  cop.     Assign 

The  guilt,  the  blame,  the  shame!     Sting,  lash,  and 

spur! 
Call  each  and  all!     Call  us!     And  then  call  her! 

He  would,  indeed,  be  a  fool  who  would  deny  the 


ROMANTICS :  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       283 

truth  of  this  indictment ;  but  he  also  would  be  a 
little  unsound  in  his  judgment  who  could  claim 
that  it  transcended  more  than  a  vivid  craftsman- 
ship, exposing  a  figure  which  society  has  pro- 
duced, and  for  which  it  takes  no  moral  responsi- 
bility. 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  continued  Jason, 
and  in  spite  of  the  effort  to  present  Miss 
Mitchell's  quality  as  a  poet,  on  the  social  temper 
of  '  The  Night  Court,'  she  has  a  real  and  im- 
pressive power  of  imagination  which  is  of  a  very 
different  significance  and  value.  Her  highest  po- 
etic quality  is  a  little  difficult  to  describe,  because 
it  is  at  once  both  literal  and  symbolic.  There  is 
no  one  among  our  poets  with  quite  her  power  of 
compressing  the  abstract  and  expanding  the  con- 
crete within  the  same  emotional  furnace.  I  no- 
ticed this  in  the  very  first  poems  I  ever  read  of 
Miss  Mitchell's.  The  poem  I  have  chiefly  in  mind 
which  does  this,  is  '  The  Sin  Eater,'  still  one  of 
the  best  poems  she  has  written.  With  my  first 
reading  I  regarded  it  as  the  work  of  a  woman 
who  showed  unmistakable  signs  of  genius,  and  who 
had  it  in  her  to  go  far  in  the  art  of  poetry.  Her 
later  poems  have  proved  my  faith.  But  this  poem 
struck  a  rich,  vivid,  original  note,  which  was  of 
one  absolutely  whole  and  complete  pattern  of  imag- 
inative awe.  It  left  me  a  little  breathless,  I'll  ad- 
mit, tacking  down  its  obvious  symbolism  —  I  say 
obvious,  because  it  was  like  tracing  the  course  of 
a  light  upon  a  dark  landscape,  every  feature  of 


284      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

which  is  familiar  but  elusive  in  obscurity.  The 
art  of  the  poem  is  so  sure,  every  word  evocative  of 
an  atmosphere  which  brought  a  strange  chill  of 
fascination  to  the  feelings.  The  weird  spell  be- 
gins to  work  with  the  very  first  words : 

I 

"  Hark  ye !     Hush  ye !     Margot's  dead  ! 
Hush !     Ha'  done  wi'  your  brawling  tune ! 
Danced^  she  did^  till  the  stars  grew  pale; 
Mother  o'  God,  an'  she's  gone  at  noon ! 
Sh-h  .  .  .  d'ye    hear   me?  —  Margot's    dead! 
Sickened  an'  drooped  an'  died  in  an  hour. 
(Bring  me  th'  milk  an'  th'  meat  an'  bread!) 
Drooped,  she  did,  like  a  wilted  flower. 
Come  an'  look  at  her,  how  she  lies. 
Little  an'  lone  an'  like  she's  scared.  ... 
(She  lost  her  beads  last  Friday  week, 
Tore  her  book,  an'   she  never  cared.) 
Eh,  my  lass,  but  it's  winter,  now, — 
You  that  ever  was  meant  for  June, — 
Your  laughing  mouth  and  your  dancing  feet  — 
An'  now  you're  done,  like  an  ended  tune. 
Where's  that  woman  ?     Ah,  give  it  me  quick ; 
Food  at  her  head  and  her  poor,  still  feet.  .  .  . 
There's  plenty,  fool !     D'ye  think  th'  wench 
Has  so  many  sins  for  Himself  to  eat? 
Take  up  your  cloak  an'  hand  me  mine. 
Are  we  fetching  him?     Eh,  for  sure. 
An'  you'll  come  with  me  for  all  your  quakes. 
Clear  to  his  cave  across  th'  moor ! 
—  Margot,  dearie,  don't  look  so  scared ! 
It's  no  long  while  till  your  peace  begins. 
What  if  you  tore  your  book,  poor  lamb  ? 
I'm  bringing  you  one  will  eat  your  sins ! 


ROMANTICS :  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO      285 

II 

"  It's  a  blood  red  sun  that's  sinking  .  .  . 
Ohooo  .  .  .  but  th'  marshland's  drear ! 
Woman,  for  why  will  you  be  shrinking  ? 
I'm  telling  you  there's  nought  to  fear. 
What  if  the  twilight's  gloomish 
An'  th'  shadows  creep  an'  crawl?  — 
Woman,  woman,  here'll  be  th'  cave  — 
Stand  by  me  close  till  I  call ! 

*  Sin  Eater  !     Devil  Cheater  ! ' 

(Eh,  it  echoes  hollowly!) 

'  Margot's  dead  at  Willow  Farm ! 

Shroud  your  face  and  follow  me ! ' 

III 

"  One  o'  th'  clock  .  .  .  two  o'  th'  clock  .  .  . 
This  night's  a  week  in  span. 
Still  he  crouches  by  her  side. 
Devil  .  .  .  ghost  ...  or  man? 

IV 

"  Woman,  never  cock's  crow  sounded  sweet  before ! 
Set  th'  casement  wide  ajar,  fasten  back  th'  door! 
(Eh,  but  I  be  cold  an'  stiff,  waiting  for  th'  dawn  !) 
Fetch  me  flowers  —  jessamine —     See,  th'  food  is 

gone! 
Light  enough  to  see  her  now  .  .  .  Mary !     How  her 

face 
Shines  on  us  like  altar  fires,  now  she's  sure  o'  grace ! 
Never  mind  your  book,  my  lamb,  never  heed  your 

beads ! 
There's  th'  Gleam  before  you  now, —  follow  where 

it  leads ! 


286      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 


"  Tearful  peace  and  gentle  grief 
Brood  on  Willow  Farm: 
Margot,  sleeping  in  her  flowers. 
Smiles,  secure  from  harm; 
In  a  cave  across  the  moor. 
Dank  and  dark  within, 
Moans  the  trafficker  in  souls. 
Freshly  bowed  with  sin. 

"  There  is  a  deep  poet  speaking  in  that  poem ; 
and  she  speaks  variously  with  that  same  imagina- 
tive strangeness  in  several  other  poems.  Listen 
to  her  in  '  The  Vinegar  Man,'  and  the  voice  goes 
deeply  into  your  recollection  of  tragedies  that 
grow  out  of  incidents  apparently  as  trifling  as  the 
torn  valentine  of  this  poem ;  and  there  is  the  same 
voice  in  *  The  Orient,  Half  Morocco,  8  vo.,'  a 
pathetic  picture  of  a  woman  in  dream-reality  liv- 
ing the  life  of  the  Orient  upon  her  farm,  because, 

"  She  bought  a  book,  once,  with  the  butter  money  — 
A  wild,  undreamed  of,  reckless  thing  to  do ! 
(So  much  to  manage  for  the  winter  schooling; 
That  split  in  Hannah  Mary's  Sunday  shoe.  .  .  .) 

"  The  cover  bravely  flaunted  gold  and  scarlet, — 
Gave  hint  and  promise  of  the  hidden  feast. 
Fine-grained  and  limber,  sleek  beneath  the  fingers. 
Frankly  symbolic  of  the  gorgeous  east. 

"  She  wrapt  it  up  and  laid  it  in  the  bureau ; 
She  knew  she  wouldn't  get  to  read  it  soon, — 
Not  while  she  had  the  harvesters  to  cook  for, 
The'  maybe  ...  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  .  .  . 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO      287 

"  How  often,  then,  her  thought  went  winging  to  it. 
Thro'  all  the  cumbered  days  she  had  to  wait. 
Till,  in  a  scanty  hour  of  hard-won  leisure. 
She  entered  shyly  thro'  the  latticed  gate : 

"  Dim  har'ms  .  .  .  sultans  .  .  .  yashmaks  .  .  .  cloudy 
nargillehs, — 
Strange  sounding  words  from  far-off  story  lands ; 
The  farm-house  fades ;  the  Wishing  Carpet  bears  her 
To  Kairowan,  across  the  golden  sands, 

"  Since  then,  thro'  all  the  somber  woof  of  living, 
For  her  the  mystic  Orient  weaves  its  spells ; 
Faintly,  at  dawn,  down  thro'  the  dairy  pasture. 
She  seems  to  hear  the  chime  of  temple  bells. 

"  Now  she  can  see  across  the  piles  of  mending  — 
(There  is  a  window  in  her  prison  tower!) 
Beyond  the  baking  and  the  baby  tending 
The  Mueddin  calls  across  the  sunset  hour. 

"  When  the  fierce  August  sun  in  grudging  mercy. 
Threatening  worse  torments  for  the  morrow,  sets. 
The  battered  barns,  the  tanks,  the  gilded  hay  cocks. 
Are  distant  domes  and  towers  and  minarets. 

"  The  sullen  farmer,  summoned  in  to  supper. 
Weary  and  silent  as  he  slouches  down. 
To  her  fresh  eyes  becomes  a  mighty  Caliph 
Whose  minions  tremble  at  his  slightest  frown. 

"  Subtlest  of  all  —  of  course  they  do  not  mark  it  — 
She  in  herself  is  gently  touched  with  grace  — 
The  swifter  carriage  of  her  toil-warped  figure, 
The  ghost  of  girlhood  in  her  furrowed  face. 


288      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Sometimes  they  have  to  call  her  twice,  and  sharply; 
(They  see  her,  and  they  think  that  she  is  there!) 
Thro*  all  the  homely  clamor,  she  is  hearing 
Oh,  very  near  and  clear.  The  Call  to  Prayer ! 

"And  so  this  voice  with  its  curiously  mixed 
keys  of  fact  and  symbolism,  sounds  in  *  The  Old 
Maid,'  touching  beyond  description  with  its 
double  moods  of  fading  hope  and  burning  expecta- 
tion ;  and  in  '  St.  John  of  Nepomuc,'  really  a  mas- 
terpiece of  an  embodiment  of  modernity,  telling  the 
story  of  the  medieval  saint  by  a  young  college 
freshman  in  Prague,  who  moralizes  upon  his  in- 
fluence when  he  makes  a  touchdown : 

"And   there   I    was   on   that   old   bridge  .  .  .  boob 

Freshman  me  on  that  same  bridge ! 
The  lazy  river  hummed  and  purred  and  sang  a  sleepy 

song  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  know  it  listens  queer,  but  gad,  it  was  so 

real  and  near, 
I  stood  there  basking  in  the  sun  for  goodness  knows 

how  long. 

"  Sometimes  I  see  it  even  now :  I  see  that  little  lean 

old  saint 
Put  up  against  the  shining  spears  his  simple  nerve 

and  pluck : 
And  once,  by  Jove,  you  know,  he  came  right  down 

beside  me  in  the  game  .   .  . 
We  know  who  made  the  touchdown  then,  old  John 

of  Nepomuc ! 

"Any  subject  may  be  attempted  in  verse,  but 
not  every  poet  can  make   any   subject  yield  its 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       289 

poetry  to  the  imagination.  Miss  Mitchell  has 
this  faculty  as  John  Masefield  has  it.  She  can 
take  as  he  takes,  any  unpromising  material  and  get 
out  of  it  the  essence  of  beauty  and  the  element  of 
mystery.  I  ought  to  say,  however,  it  is  only  when 
she  gives  herself  freely  to  the  inspiration,  and 
does  not  permit  extraneous  purposes  to  lead  her 
astray.  Her  football  poem  *  Revelation,'  in  which 
she  tells  of  a  lad  making  the  team,  though  he  did 
not  get  into  the  game,  has  a  subtler  signification 
than  the  mere  theme  implies : 

"  He  had  not  made  the  team,  hut  for  four  long  seasons, 
Each  of  ten  grinding  weeks,  he  had  given  the  flower. 
The  essence,  and  strength  of  body,  brain,  and  spirit. 
He  and  his  kind  —  the  second  team  —  till  the  power 
To  cope  with  opposition  and  to  surmount  it 
Into  the  team  was  driven  against  this  hour! 

"  What  did  it  matter  who  held  onto  the  leather, 
He  or  another?     What  was  a  four-years'  dream? 
Out  of  his  heart  the  shame  and  rancor  lifted ; 
There   burst    from   his    throat    a    hoarse,   exultant 

scream. 
Not  in  the  fight,  but  part  of  it,  he  was  winning! 
This  was  his  victory:  he  had  made  the  team! 

The  poet  speaks  in  this  poem  in  glowing  tones  of 
imagination  and  vision. 

"  How  absent  these  poetic  qualities  are  from  a 
modern  subject,  we  have  only  to  turn  to  Miss 
Mitchell's  poem  on  '  The  Subway.'  The  reason  is 
evident.  Here  we  are  again  in  that  atmosphere 
which  seems  to  accuse  our  social  disorder.     All 


290      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

the  elements  of  that  disorder  are  catalogued  to  no 
purpose;  for  if  rapid  transit  imposes  upon  the 
citizen  the  discomforts  of  crowds,  bad  ventilation, 
and  numerous  other  ills  —  including  the  propin- 
quity of  humanity  —  its  boon  as  a  part  of  the 
march  of  modern  progress  quite  makes  up  in  gen- 
eral for  the  superficial  defects :  and  this  leaves  the 
particular  treatment  of  subject  as  a  social  theme, 
nowhere.  Where  Miss  Mitchell  fails  in  a  subject 
of  this  kind  is  scarcely  in  her  art,  but  must  be  laid 
to  the  fault  of  her  conception  of  its  purpose. 
It  is  a  serious,  but  not  a  damaging,  error.  She 
redeems  herself  too  often,  for  it  to  damage  her 
gifts.  For  a  first  book,"  Jason  concluded,  "  this 
collection  is  an  excellent  accomplishment.  There 
is  a  maturity  of  touch  that  seems  incredible  for  so 
young  a  poet.  Apart  from  the  art  which  she  so 
adroitly  commands  is  the  substance  of  her  work, 
which  is  streaked  with  so  many  gleams  of  a  strong 
visual  imagination. 

*'  I  ought  to  have  made  a  condition  when  I  con- 
sented to  discuss  Miss  Mitchell's  book,  and  that 
was,  that  you  would  promise  to  give  us  your 
opinion  of  Miss  Lowell's  '  Men,  Women  and 
Ghosts,'  "  Jason  addressed  me.  "  I  don't  think 
Psyche  or  Cassandra  would  mind." 

The  girls  both  said  they  would  be  delighted. 
They  had  their  own  opinions  about  Miss  Lowell's 
art,  but  as  they  were  in  a  receptive  mood  to-day 
on  account  of  the  persuasive  eloquence  of  the 
grove,  they  were  ready  to  be  convinced  on  any 
doubtful    points    of    theory    or    purpose.     "  Of 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       291 

course,"  remarked  Cassandra,  "  I  am  quite  aware 
of  the  confusion  of  opinion  about  Miss  Lowell's 
art ;  she  assails  traditions,  but  I  can  see  nothing 
extraordinary  about  that  —  poets  have  done  that 
before,  and  will  continue  to  do  so  long  after  this 
generation  is  dead.  And  it  isn't  so  much  the 
manner  of  that  assault  either,  that  interests  me, 
but  the  quality  of  individual  power,  of  instinctive 
poetic  temperament,  she  has.  Only  the  results, 
not  the  method,  can  show  these ;  and  those  results 
must  be  judged  by  a  standard  which  is  not  whim- 
sical, as  some  think,  but  eternal." 

"  You  are  right  in  your  point  of  view,  Cassan- 
dra," I  said.  "  When  I  began  reading  '  Men, 
Women  and  Ghssts,'  I  could  not  help  recognizing 
the  truth  of  these  reflections  by  a  modern  critic. 
'  The  principle  of  destruction,'  wrote  Arthur 
Symons,  '  is  the  principle  of  life.  It  is  your  busi- 
ness if  you  are  bringing  a  new  force  into  the  world, 
to  begin  by  killing,  or  at  least  wounding,  a  tradi- 
tion, even  if  the  tradition  once  had  all  the  virtues.' 
And  *  true  originality,'  he  continues,  *  will  but  dis- 
concert the  student  of  poetry  who  has  come  to 
love  certain  formulas,  the  formulas  of  his  masters, 
which  seem  to  him,  as  every  form  of  truth  must 
seem  to  "  young  ignorance  and  old  custom,"  a  form 
immortal  in  itself.'  Miss  Lowell  has  been  wound- 
ing tradition  ever  since  the  publication  of  '  Sword 
Blades  and  Poppy  Seeds,'  two  years  ago;  and 
'  young  ignorance  and  old  custom  '  have  been  dis- 
concerted in  championing  the  old  formulas.  It 
has  been,  this  spectacle  of  passionate  protection 


292      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

against  originality,  very  largely  on  the  surface, 
a  voluntary  confession  that  form  is  immortal  only 
when  it  is  barricaded  with  limitations.  But  the 
point  is  missed,  by  every  student  of  poetry  who 
shows  himself  disconcerted  by  new  formulas,  that 
a  '  limitation,  which  in  the  artist  is  often  strength, 
shutting  him  in  more  securely  on  his  own  path, 
in  the  critic  is  mere  weakness  of  sight,  an  unpar- 
donable blindness.  In  no  two  ages  of  the  world 
has  eternal  beauty  manifested  itself  under  the 
same  form.' 

"  I  open  myself  to  the  charge  of  inconsistency 
when  I  agree  that  the  '  poetry  that  is  at  once 
recognized  by  its  resemblance  to  other  poetry  must 
always  be  second-rate  work,'  but  I  have  not  been 
inconsistent  because  what  I  have  recognized  is  that 
a  degree  of  intensity  and  a  mode  of  spiritual  intui- 
tion is  often  comparable  in  poets  far  apart  in  the 
effect  of  their  total  achievement.  Judged  by  this, 
the  poems  in  Miss  Lowell's  new  volume  are  not 
second-rate  work,  because  they  have  no  resem- 
blance to  anj^  other  poetry.  One  may  look  around 
and  examine  all  the  other  poetry  in  English  that 
has  lately,  with  new  formulas,  departed  from  the 
traditional  modes  of  expression,  and  find  nothing 
exactly  like  the  art  in  '  Men,  Women  and  Ghosts.' 
There  are  Miss  Lowell's  confreres  in  *  Imagism,' 
but  even  among  them  there  is  no  such  advance,  as 
she  has  made,  in  taking  the  principle  of  form  out 
of  a  narrow  practice  and  setting  it  constructively 
upon  the  fundamental  base  of  rhythmic  laws. 
Let  us  glance  for  a  moment  at  her  own  declara- 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       293 

tion  of  pi'inciple.  '  It  has  long  been  a  favorite 
idea  of  mine,'  she  writes,  '  that  the  rhythms  of 
zers  libre  have  not  been  sufficiently  plumbed,  that 
there  is  in  them  a  power  of  variation  which  has 
never  yet  been  brought  to  the  light  of  experiment. 
I  think  it  was  the  piano  pieces  of  Debussy,  with 
their  strange  likeness  to  short  vers  libre  poems, 
which  first  showed  me  the  close  kinship  of  music 
and  poetry,  and  there  flashed  into  my  mind  the 
idea  of  using  the  movement  of  poetry  in  somewhat 
the  same  way  that  the  musician  uses  the  movement 
of  music.  It  was  quite  evident  that  this  could 
never  be  done  in  the  strict  pattern  of  a  metrical 
form,  but  the  flowing,  fluctuating  rhythm  of  vers 
libre  seemed  to  open  the  door  to  such  an  experi- 
ment.' 

"  The  *  power  of  variation  '  that  has  been  at- 
tempted in  the  present  collection  offers  results 
which  carry  the  art  of  '  Men,  Women  and  Ghosts  ' 
beyond  experimentation.  '  This  is  a  book  of 
stories,'  the  poet  declares.  '  For  that  reason  I 
have  excluded  all  purely  lyrical  poems.  But  the 
word  "  stories  "  has  been  stretched  to  its  fullest 
application.  It  includes  both  narrative  poems, 
properly  so-called ;  tales  divided  into  scenes,  and 
a  few  pieces  of  less  obvious  story-telling  import  in 
which  one  might  say  that  the  dramatis  personce 
are  air,  clouds,  trees,  houses,  streets,  and  such 
things.'  These  stories,  however,  are  not  only  told 
in  the  '  fluctuating  rhythm  of  vers  libre,''  in  which 
the  movement  of  poetry  is  associated  with  the 
movement  of  music,  but  in  the  ordered  pattern  of 


294      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Chaucerian  stanzas,  and  in  strict  metrical  forms; 
sometimes  the  two  forms  blending,  as  in  the  nar- 
rative of  '  The  Cremona  Violin ' ;  and  also  in  poly- 
phonic prose,  a  form  of  Miss  Lowell's  own  inven- 
tion, in  which  the  typographical  arrangement  of 
the  words  gives  elaborate  and  effective  aid  to  the 
dramatic  substance,  and  have  recurrent  pulse  and 
rhyme. 

"  There  are  five  groups  of  poems  in  the  volume, 
and  the  caption  of  each  is  an  ornament  in  itself. 
*  Figurines  in  Old  Saxe '  contains  the  incompar- 
able '  Patterns,'  opening  the  book ;  *  Pickthorn 
Manor,'  a  long  narrative  in  metre  and  rhyme,  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  in  which  love  produces 
hallucination  of  identity,  ending  through  discov- 
ery upon  a  final  note  of  tragedy ;  '  The  Cremona 
Violin,'  another  long  narrative  with  a  Germanic 
setting  in  the  eighteenth  century ;  '  The  Cross- 
Roads,'  a  ghostly  tale  of  New  England ;  '  A  Rox- 
bury  Garden,'  a  delightful  chronicle  of  two  girls 
and  their  games ;  and  '  1777,'  a  poem  of  two  con- 
trasting parts,  the  first  dealing  with  our  own 
Revolutionary  atmosphere  and  the  second  a  series 
of  Venetian  pictures,  both  parts  depending  for 
their  dramatization  upon  natural  objects.  Next 
come  '  Bronze  Tablets,'  four  poems  of  the  Na- 
poleonic era,  containing  the  '  Fruit  Shop,'  '  Mal- 
maison,'  '  The  Hammers,'  and  '  The  Two  Trav- 
ellers in  the  Place  Vendome  ' —  these  are  veritable 
achievements  of  historical  narratives  with  some- 
thing of  an  epical  significance  condensed  in  the 
human    characterization    of    the    figure    of    Na- 


ROMANTICS :  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO       295 

poleon  woven  with  the  destinies  of  his  career 
into  a  great  drama.  *  War  Pictures '  contains 
the  well-known  '  The  Bombardment,'  and  a  still 
more  remarkable  poem  called  '  The  Allies,'  which 
is  quite  worthy  of  a  place  beside  Masefield's 
'August:  1914';  *  The  Overgrown  Pasture'  is 
a  series  of  poems  in  Yankee  dialect ;  and  finally 
'  Clock  Ticks  of  a  Century,'  with  a  supplementary 
section  of  '  Towns  in  Color,'  in  which  the  attempt 
is  to  give  the  '  color,  and  light,  and  shade  of  cer- 
tain places  and  hours,  stressing  the  purely  pic- 
torial effect.' 

"  Here  is  a  bewilderment  of  riches ;  an  ornate, 
massive,  richly-furnished  palace  of  art.  Don't 
expect  to  find  a  comfortable  love-in-a-cottage,  nor 
even  one  of  those  plain  and  serviceable,  utilitarian 
structures  through  which  flow  the  mundane,  prac- 
tical affairs  of  man,  in  this  book.  You  will  be 
disappointed  if  you  do ;  moreover,  you  will  be 
shocked  and  dazzled,  by  a  splendor  which,  because 
of  your  untravelled  mind  in  the  far  and  remote 
chronicle  of  literary  history,  will  not  be  a  splendor 
at  all.  Not  many  Americans  who  look  upon  the 
Parthenon  or  the  Roman  Forum,  have  that  agree- 
able feeling  of  antique  beauty  of  form,  or  are  pos- 
sessed by  that  influence  which  flows  from  associa- 
tions mellow  with  age ;  a  modern  skyscraper  in 
lower  Manhattan  means  much  more  to  them,  they 
can  see  and  grasp  the  purpose  for  which  it  exists, 
but  the  Roman  Forum  !  your  practical  and  blunted 
tourist  would  have  those  ruins  demolished  and  con- 
struct   on    the    site    something   that    would    pay. 


296      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

'  Drain  the  ground,  and  make  the  place  sanitary, 
and  the  income  from  leases  for  public  shows  —  in- 
cluding Billy  Sunday  —  will  make  the  place  pay,' 
he  thinks,  with  a  mind  oblivious  to  history  and  ears 
deaf  to  the  voice  of  a  great  race  speaking  in  the 
stately  silence,  and  his  eyes  blind  to  the  beauty  of 
form  which  still  keeps  alive  the  spirit  of  culture 
which  was  at  the  height  of  its  perfection  two  thou- 
sand years  ago. 

"  Yes,"  I  almost  brooded,  "  this  is  an  art  you 
must  take  on  its  own  terms,  just  as  any  romanticist 
must  be  taken  on  his  own  terms.  You  can  only 
say  what  it  does  in  so  far  as  you  are  able  to  see 
and  understand  what  it  is  trying  to  do.  You 
cannot  approach  it  with  any  preconceived  no- 
tions of  what  it  ought  to  be;  you  can  only  ap- 
proach it  with  a  desire  to  be  moved,  to  receive 
pleasure,  to  have  your  own  dormant  emotions 
made  articulate,  through  imagery,  color,  sound, 
and  symbols,  or  through  any  combination  of  these 
that  will  produce  the  ecstasy  of  realization ;  that 
is  your  only  standard  of  judgment.  But  do  not 
believe  that  all  the  responsibility,  even  if  most  of 
the  labor,  belongs  to  the  poet.  Upon  you  is  the 
obligation  to  be  at  least  intelligent,  to  be  aware 
of  the  wide,  divergent,  and  multiform  aspects  of 
life;  and  as  these  are  almost  limitless,  so  is  the 
expression  in  art,  borrowing  from  all  sources  its 
material  of  reproduction  and  presentation,  to  re- 
cord the  countless  facets  of  the  world. 

"  Now  your  romanticist  proceeds  as  if  there 
had  never  been  such  a  sense  as  wonder  in  the  world 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO      297 

before  his  own  personal  experience  with  it.  Yet 
wonder  is  not  the  end  but  the  means  of  his  daring 
imaginative  exploration  of  dreams.  Wonder  is 
ruthless  because  it  will  not  be  guided  by  tradition, 
but  goes  its  own  way,  bent  on  its  own  purpose  — 
and  finds  its  own  goal  wherever  it  lies  in  the 
hinterland  of  consciousness.  The  petty  question 
whether  such  a  mood  produces  poetry,  settles  it- 
self in  time ;  as  it  settled  itself  for  Blake,  and  for 
Keats  and  Shelley. 

"  Miss  Lowell  is  a  romanticist.  She  has  the 
two  important  requisites  which  make  a  romantic 
poet :  a  daring  imagination,  and  the  emotional  en- 
ergy to  sustain  it.  '  Pickthorn  Manor  '  is  an  ad- 
mirable illustration  of  both  forces  at  work  with 
even  pace ;  in  *  The  Cremona  Violin  '  one  lags  a 
little  behind  the  other,  to  consequent  defects  in 
the  poem.  But  in  the  Napoleonic  poems  they 
work  with  magnificent  harmony,  sweeping  across 
the  horizon  of  history  on  glittering  wings  of  hu- 
man destiny.  '  Malmaison  '  is  a  huge  canvas,  but 
'  The  Hammers  '  has  the  breadth  and  depth  of 
an  epical  imagination.  More,  it  has  profound 
feeling.  The  tapping  of  hammers  is  made 
a  symbol  of  the  destiny  of  Napoleon.  First 
at  Kent,  in  1786,  with  the  building  of  the 
'  Bellerophon  ';  next  in  Paris,  March,  1814,  in  re- 
moving the  imperial  eagle  and  bees  from  a  per- 
fumer's shop ;  again  in  Paris,  April,  1814,  when 
the  inscriptions  of  the  imperial  victories  are  chis- 
elled off  the  marble  arch  in  the  Place  du  Car- 
rousel;    at    Croisy,     Ile-de-France,   June,   1815, 


298      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

where  a  blacksmith  is  shoeing  a  horse  for  a  ser- 
geant of  Napoleon's  after  Waterloo ;  and  lastly, 
the  hammering  of  the  coffin  for  the  Man  of  Des- 
tiny, at  St.  Helena,  May,  1821.  There  is  the 
stuff  of  great  art  in  this,  and  the  poet  has 
made  the  most  of  it.  It  is  too  long  for  me  to 
read  now,  but  I  want  to  read  the  poem  which  closes 
this  Napoleonic  sequence,  the  '  Two  Travellers  in 
the  Place  Vendome,'  because  I  believe  it  will  give 
you  a  sense  of  the  bigness  of  the  theme  and  its 
treatment  by  the  poet.  The  colloquy  takes  place 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe: 

"  A  great  tall  column  spearing  at  the  sky 
With   a   little   man   on   top.     Goodness !     Tell   me 

why? 
He  looks  a  silly  thing  enough  to  stand  up  there  so 

high. 

"  What  a  strange  fellow,  like  a  soldier  in  a  play, 
Tight-fitting  coat  with  the  tails  cut  away^ 
High-crowned  hat  which  the  brims  overlay. 

"  Two-horned  hat  makes  an  outline  like  a  bow. 
Must  have  a  sword,  I  can  see  the  light  glow 
Between  a  dark  line  and  his  leg.     Vertigo. 

"  I  get  gazing  up  at  him,  a  pygmy  flashed  with  sun. 
A  weathercock  or  scarecrow  or  both  things  in  one.'' 
As  bright  as  a  jewelled  crown  hung  above  a  throne. 

"  Say,  what  is  the  use  of  him  if  he  doesn't  turn.^ 
Just  put  up  to  glitter  there,  like  a  torch  to  burn, 
A  sort  of  sacrificial  show  in  a  lofty  urn.^ 


ROMANTICS :  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO      299 

"  But  why  a  little  soldier  in  an  obsolete  dress  ? 
I'd  rather  see  a  Goddess  with  a  spear,  I  confess. 
Something  allegorical  and  fine.     Why,  yes  — 

"  I  cannot  take  my  eyes  from  him.     I  don't  know  why 

at  all. 
I've  looked  so  long  the  whole  thing  swims.     I  feel 

he  ought  to  fall. 
Foreshortened  there  among  the  clouds  he's  pitifully 

small. 

"  What  do  you  say .''     There  used  to  be  an  Emperor 

standing  there, 
With    flowing    robes    and    laurel    crown.     Really.'' 

Yet  I  declare 
Those  spiral  battles  round  the  shaft  don't  seem  just 

his  affair. 

"  A  togaed,  laurelled  man's,  I  mean.     Now  this  chap 
seems  to  feel 
As  though  he  owned  those  soldiers.     Whew !     How 

he  makes  one  reel. 
Swinging  round  above  his  circling  armies  in  a  wheel. 

"  Swinging  round  the  sky  in  an  orbit  like  the  sun's. 
Flashing  sparks  like  cannon-balls  from  his  own  long 

guns. 
Perhaps  my  sight  is  tired,  but  that  figure  simply 
stuns. 

"  How  low  the  houses  seem,  and  all  the  people  are 

mere  flies. 
That  fellow  pokes  his  hat  up  till  it  scratches  on  the 

skies. 
Impudent!     Audacious!     But,  by  Jove,  he  blinds 

the  eyes !  " 


300      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"It  isn't  fair  to  break  in,"  remarked  Psyche 
when  I  finished  the  poem,  "but  won't  you  read 
the  last  section  of  '  St.  Helena,  May,  1821,'  which 
closes  'The  Hammers'?  My  reading  gave  me 
an  impression  of  the  splendor  and  sweep  of  the 
imagination  matching  the  terrific  drama  of  a  colos- 
sal human  failure,  in  those  lines." 

"Yes;  Psyche,  I  will  read  them,"  I  repUed. 
"  There  is  a  tremendous  vision  in  those  lines  of 
the  emptiness  of  greatness,  of  the  last  refuge  for 
haunted  dreams,  in  the  silence  and  defeat  of 
death."     And  I  read: 

"  Tap !     Tap !     Tap ! 
Marble  likeness  of  an  Emperor, 
Dead  man,  who  burst  your  heart  against  a  world 

too  narrow, 
The  hammers  drum  you  to  your  last  throne 
Which  always  you  shall  hold  alone. 
Tap !     Tap ! 

The  glory  of  your  past  is  faded  as  a  sunset  fire. 
Your  day  lingers  only  like  the  tones  of  a  wind-lyre 
In  a  twilit  room. 

Here  is  the  emptiness  of  your  dream 
Scattered  about  you. 
Coins  of  yesterday. 

Double  Napoleons  stamped  with  Consul  or  Emperor, 
Strange  as  those  of  Herculaneum  — 
And  you  just  dead  ! 
Not  one  spool  of  thread 
Will  these  buy  in  any  market-place. 
Lay  them  over  him, 

They  are  the  baubles  of  a  crown  of  mist 
Worn  in  a  vision  and  melted  away  at  waking. 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO     301 

Tap !     Tap ! 

His  heart  strained  at  kingdoms 

And  now  it  is  content  with  a  silver  dish. 

Strange  World !     Strange  Wayfarer ! 

Strange  Destiny ! 

Lower  it  gently  beside  him  and  let  it  lie. 

Tap !     Tap !     Tap  !  " 

I  paused  after  the  last  line.  Even  Jason,  whom 
I  felt  to  be  a  little  skeptical  about  the  merits  of 
Miss  Lowell's  verse,  visibly  caught  at  his  breath 
while  listening.  "  Half  Morocco,  8  vo, —  what 
difference  does  the  binding  make !  "  he  murmured. 

I  wondered  if  he  meant  to  be  ironic,  but  there 
was  too  serious  a  look  in  his  face.  "  It  doesn't 
make  any  difference  —  in  the  text,  if  it  is  sound 
and  true,"  I  said.  "  Miss  Lowell  and  Miss 
Mitchell  are  romanticists,  and  so  form  itself  must 
be  a  thing  of  ingenious  device  to  be  in  harmony 
with  the  substance." 

"  But  the  romantic  impulse  leads  to  excess, 
doesn't  it.?  "  asked  Psyche. 

"  Excess  in  art  is  better  than  poverty.  But 
don't  think  that  I  mean  the  restraint  of  the  clas- 
sical mood  is  either  poverty  of  ideas  or  imagina- 
tion. The  excess  of  romanticism  is  in  curiosity 
and  experiment.  The  former  leads  very  often  to 
mere  inquisitiveness  instead  of  sympathy,  and  the 
latter  to  absurd  expressions.  The  senses  of  sound 
and  sight  are  the  most  important  in  the  creation 
of  poetry.  Feeling,  of  course,  is  the  fundamental 
quality  in  human  expression  through  the  forms  of 
art.     But  sound  and  sight  come  to  the  surface 


302      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

with  the  greatest  sensuous  intensity.  Now  I 
think  it  is  a  danger  in  Miss  Lowell's  art  to  have 
too  sensuous  a  sense  of  sight,  as  Swinburne  had 
too  sensuous  a  sense  of  sound.  Meaning  in  either, 
is  likely  to  have  no  significance.  Miss  Lowell  in 
striving  for  the  pictorial  effect  has  established 
what  she  calls  the  '  unrelated '  method.  I  would 
like  to  quote  her  on  this  theory :  '  One  last  inno- 
vation I  have  still  to  mention.  It  will  be  found  in 
"  Spring  Day,"  and  more  fully  enlarged  upon  in 
the  series  "  Towns  in  Colour."  In  these  poems,  I 
have  endeavoured  to  give  the  colour,  and  light, 
and  shade,  of  certain  places  and  hours,  stressing 
the  purely  pictorial  effect,  and  with  little  or  no 
reference  to  any  other  aspect  of  the  places  de- 
scribed. It  is  an  enchanting  thing  to  wander 
through  a  city  looking  for  its  unrelated  beauty, 
the  beauty  by  which  it  captivates  the  sensuous 
sense  of  seeing.  I  have  always  loved  aquariums, 
but  for  years  I  went  to  them  and  looked,  and 
looked,  at  those  swirling,  shooting,  looping  pat- 
terns of  fish,  which  always  defied  transcription  to 
paper  until  I  hit  upon  the  "  unrelated  "  method. 
The  result  is  in  "  An  Aquarium."  '  A  great  many 
people,"  I  added,  "  cannot  accept  this  theory,  or 
method,  because  it  is  '  unrelated  '  to  some  human 
emotion  or  purpose.  The  thing  can't,  for  them, 
be  just  what  it  is  in  itself;  that  motion  and  color 
can't  create  its  own  beauty  as  a  natural  object, 
without  some  indwelling  sense  which  depends  for 
its  significance  upon  human  feeling." 

"But  how  about  the  object,  or  objects,  react- 


ROMANTICS:  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO      303 

ing  upon  human  emotions?  "  asked  Jason.  "  Ob- 
jects exist  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  arouse  the 
sensuous  delight  of  seeing." 

"  Seeing  a  picture,  I  should  say,  that  has  a 
certain  quality  of  beauty.  But  let  me  read  the 
poem,"  I  said,  "  for  what  it  suggests. 

"  Streaks  of  green  and  yellow  iridescence. 
Silver  shiftings, 
Rings  veering  out  of  rings. 
Silver  —  gold  — 

Grey-green  opaqueness  sliding  down. 
With  sharp  white  bubbles 
Shooting  and  dancing. 
Flinging  quickly  outward. 
Nosing  the  bubbles. 
Swallowing  them. 
Fish. 

Blue  shadows  against  silver-saffron  water. 
The  light  rippling  over  them 
In  steel-bright  tremors. 
Outspread  translucent  fins 
Flute,  fold,  and  relapse; 

The  threaded  light  prints  through  them  on  the  peb- 
bles 
In  scarcely  tarnished  twinklings. 
Curving  of  spotted  spines. 
Slow  up-shifts. 
Lazy  convolutions: 
Then  a  sudden  swift  straightening 
And  darting  below: 
Oblique  grey  shadows 
Athwart  a  pale  casement. 
Roped  and  curled. 
Green  man-eating  eels 


304      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Slumber  in  undulate  rhythms, 

With  crests  laid  horizontal  on  their  backs. 

Barred  fish, 

Stripped  fish. 

Uneven  disks  of  fish. 

Slip,  slide,  whirl,  turn. 

And  never  touch. 

Metallic  blue  fish, 

With  fins  wide  and  yellow  and  swaying 

Like  Oriental  fans. 

Hold  the  sun  in  their  bellies 

And  glow  with  light: 

Blue  brilliance  cut  by  black  bars. 

An  oblong  pane  of  straw-coloured  shimmer, 

Across  it,  in  a  tangent, 

A  smear  of  rose,  black,  silver. 

Short  twists  and  upstartings, 

Rose-black,  in  a  setting  of  bubbles: 

Sunshine  playing  between  red  and  black  flowers 

On  a  blue   and   gold  lawn. 

Shadows  and  polished  surfaces. 

Facets  of  mauve  and  purple, 

A  constant  modulation  of  values. 

Shaft-shaped, 

With  green  bead  eyes; 

Thick-nosed, 

Heliotrope-coloured ; 

Swift  spots  of  chrysolite  and  coral; 

In  the  midst  of  green,  pearl,  amethyst  irradiations. 

"  Outside, 
A  willow-tree  flickers 
With  little  white  jerks. 
And  long  blue  waves 
Rise  steadily  beyond  the  outer  islands. 


ROMANTICS :  HALF  MOROCCO  8  VO      305 

"  Clearly  and  definitely  the  verse-stories  in 
'  Men,  Women  and  Ghosts,'  "  I  said  in  conclusion, 
"  place  Miss  Lowell  among  the  contemporary 
poets  who  have  arrived.  Now  that  her  art,  as 
art  built  upon  the  elements  of  revolt  against  tra- 
dition, has  amply  and  fully  functioned  to  a  degree 
where  it  can  no  longer  be  assailed  for  either  in- 
adequacy or  wilfulness,  her  substance  alone  offers 
a  matter  for  controversy.  But  after  all,  sub- 
stance is  the  point  of  vital  discussion  in  all  poets. 
She,  wisel}^,  taking  a  last  stand  on  the  question 
of  form,  remarks,  *  For  the  substance  of  the  poems 
—  why,  the  poems  are  here.'  Yes,  they  are  here, 
with  an  astonishing  amount  of  emotional  and 
visionary  power.  It  is  seldom  to  be  discerned 
through  any  test  of  the  subjective  sentiment;  she 
knows  experience  as  something  spun  like  fine 
sunshine  thrown  over  life,  and  from  which  she 
evokes  an  objective  pattern  more  universal  than 
particular.  The  book  is  a  reading  of  life,  dra- 
matic, vivid,  effective,  in  which  delicate  and  tender 
moods  are  as  expressive  as  those  more  vigorous 
strokes  in  which  the  qualities  of  romantic  terror 
and  naturalism  abound." 

"  Eureka ! "  cried  Jason  as  he  leaped  to  his 
feet,  "  the  bastion  of  conservatism  utterly  de- 
molished." We  got  up  and  followed  him  out  of 
the  woods. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  whether  you  like  the  art  or  not 
you've  got  to  respect  it." 

Psyche  and  Cassandra  were  silent  as  we  walked 
along;  but  there  was  an  air  of  approval  about 
them. 


XIV 

THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE 

The  September  weather  continued  perfect,  and 
our  next  gathering  was  full  of  the  same  tranquil 
influence  abiding  in  the  woods  that  had  touched 
us  on  the  last  meeting.  The  shadows  came  down 
earlier,  of  course,  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was 
apt  to  be  a  fall  of  temperature  accompanying 
them,  with  a  sharp  breeze  in  it.  So  we  did 
not  stay  as  late,  but  made  up  for  the  shortening 
day  by  going  to  the  woods  an  hour  earlier.  Na- 
ture was  now  well  into  the  appearance  of  the  new 
season.  Though  there  was  a  change  from  the 
habit  of  greenery  and  all  its  substances  of  growth, 
—  with  which  we  have  been  familiar  in  companion- 
ship through  certain  days  in  the  summer, —  to  a 
habit  of  brilliant  colors  without  quickening  sap,  the 
eye  had  not  lost  its  appetite  for  a  sensuous  picture 
of  the  woods.  Behind  the  visible  world,  however 
it  had  changed  in  the  dress  of  grass,  trees  and 
flowers,  the  dream  was  still  on  its  throne.  When 
that  was  lost,  then  all  hope  would  be  gone. 

We  were  to  consider  war  again  in  the  poetry  for 
discussion.  Psyche  still  shrank  a  little  from  the 
prospect,  when  we   chose  the  books.     "  But  the 

message  in  our  present  group,"  I  said,  "  has  an 

306 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      307 

inspiring  note.  The  other  day  I  ran  across  the 
clipping  of  a  poem  by  Herbert  Trench,  cut  from 
an  English  paper.  It  is  one  of  the  loveliest  poems 
I  have  read  about  the  war,  because  of  its  confi- 
dent, exalted  faith  in  the  nobility  of  the  soul  of 
man  to  rise  above  the  passions  and  hatreds,  the 
brutality  and  crimes  of  the  present  war."  And 
I  took  from  my  pocket-book  the  clipping  and  read 
"  The  Birds  Flit  Unafraid  " : 

"  The  birds  flit  unafraid 
Through  your  great  cannonade; 
And,  O  Cannoniers,  though  ill 
The  forests  take  your  skill 
And  as  by  winter  nipp'd 
Scatter  leaves  bullet-stript 
Down  the  shell-ravaged  road  — 
Still,  in  its  dark  abode, 
In  the  branches  of  God, 
The  Soul  sings  on  alone; 
You  may  blow  the  dead  from  their  cript. 
Not  the  dream  from  its  throne !  " 

" '  The  dream  from  its  throne ! '  repeated 
Psyche.  "  If  it  is  true !  If  it  is  true !  Can  the 
world  accept  the  noble  assurance  of  those  lines  in 
the  midst  of  this  holocaust  of  strife  and  pas- 
sion? " 

"  The  highest  function  of  poetry  in  relation  to 
this  war  —  and  through  it  to  the  age  —  is  to  keep 
alive  in  man  his  faith  that  the  dream  is  on  its 
throne.  That  dream  is  the  message  that  the  angel 
brought  to  the  shepherds  on  the  morning  of 
Christ's   nativity.     For  two   thousand   years   al- 


308      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

most,  the  world  has  failed  in  living  up  to  it.  In 
a  moment  of  arrogant,  drunken  pride  of  strength 
and  ambition,  it  was  cut  by  the  cruel  thrust  of  the 
sword  from  the  lexicon  of  monarchy.  But  it  was 
only  the  letter  of  the  text  that  was  seared  from 
the  book  of  humanity  by  that  thrust;  the  spirit 
was  in  the  hearts  of  men  who  believe  in  justice 
and  democracy,  and  they  went  forth  to  the 
trenches,  and  on  to  the  high  seas,  to  defend  it. 
The  attempt  to  demolish  the  spiritual  fabric  of 
that  great  dream  was,  in  the  opinion  of  a  friend 
of  mine,  the  devil's  last  hope  of  overcoming  God. 
This  friend  believed  that  the  German  Kaiser  was 
the  devil  incarnate ;  and  that  he  was  using  the  Ger- 
man people  to  enthrall  the  world.  His  princi- 
palities and  powers  were  a  terrific  and  invincible 
armament,  which  he  flaunted  before  the  soul  of 
mankind,  saying:  'Bow  down  and  worship  me 
and  all  these  shall  ye  have.'  But  the  world  said, 
as  Christ  said  to  the  same  evil  spirit  on  the  high 
mount  two  thousand  years  ago,  '  Get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan.'  It  is  saying  it  with  the  British  navy, 
with  the  heroic  national  spirit  of  France,  with  the 
inexhaustible  resources  of  food  and  money  in  pro- 
Ally  America.  .  .  .  No,  the  dream  which  is  still 
that  angelic  message,  and  the  throne  which  is  the 
structure  of  the  Christian  religion  upon  which  it 
sets,  have  not  perished.  Against  the  shock  of 
the  Teutonic  blasphemy  it  has  stood  secure  in  the 
spirit  of  mankind." 

"  That  shock  is  dashing  itself  to  pieces,  like  a 
wave  against  a  rock,  on  the  immovable  spiritual 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      309 

force  of  democracy,"  Jason  echoed  my  thought. 
"  I  too,  ran  across  a  fugitive  poem  recently,  which 
shows  how  solemnly  and  exultantly  man  has  con- 
secrated himself  sacrificially  to  the  cause.  The 
poem  was  written  by  the  Earl  of  Crewe  in  memory 
of  his  son-in-law,  the  Hon.  A.  E.  B.  O'Neill,  M.  P., 
fallen  in  battle.  Here  is  the  poem,"  said  Jason, 
reading : 

"  Here  in  the  marshland,  past  the  battered  bridge, 
One  of  a  hundred  grains  untimely  sown, 
Here  with  his  comrades  of  the  hard-won  ridge 
He  rests,  unknown. 

"  His  horoscope  had  seemed  so  plainly  drawn ; 
School  triumphs  earned  apace  in  work  and  play ; 
Friendship  at  will;  then  love's  delightful  dawn 
And  mellowing  day, 

"  Home  fostering  hope ;  some  service  to  the  state ; 
Benignant  age ;  then  the  long  tryst  to  keep 
Where  in  the  yew-tree  shadows  congregate 
His  fathers  sleep. 

"  Was  here  the  one  thing  needful  to  distil 
From  life's  alembic,  through  this  holier  fate. 
The  man's  essential  soul,  the  hero  will  ? 
We  ask;  and  wait." 

"  Yes ;  it  is  beautiful,"  said  Cassandra ;  "  but 
it  is  man  speaking  for  man.  There  is  another 
voice,  a  voice  for  the  first  time  piercingly  raised, 
compelling  the  world  to  heed  —  and  that  is  woman 
speaking  for  woman.     Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


310      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

has  done  this  in  her  volume,  '  Harvest  Moon.' 
She  gives  the  first  rounded  utterance  of  a  woman's 
heart  on  the  European  war.  She  speaks  for 
woman  in  a  voice  which  comes  to  a  full  note  in 
the  present,  but  with  the  echoes  of  centuries  of 
woman's  sacrifice  in  the  past.  In  the  past,  over 
these  sacrifices,  have  been  thrown  the  silence  of 
woman's  bondage.  She  sat  by  her  hearth,  and 
moaned  ;  her  protest  was  a  dumb  protest  to  nature, 
but  nature  unheeding  went  on  its  inevitable  way, 
giving  to  this  moaning  hearthside  figure  the  sacred 
power  of  multiplying  the  earth,  and  with  it  the 
voiceless  fortitude  of  enduring  the  wastage  and 
ruin  of  the  flowers  of  her  flesh  and  spirit,  by  the 
blasting  passion  of  war.  This  has  been  woman's 
'  Heritage,'  as  Mrs.  Marks  poignantly  expresses 
it: 

"  And  if  that  men  should  cease  from  war, 
What  surety  can  there  be 
Of  hardihood  and  sovereignty 
And  might,  so  battled  for? 
Whence  shall  a  master  draw  his  strength 
And  splendor,  if  so  be,  at  length. 
The  strong  man  cease  from  war? 

"  Oh,  he  might  some  day  light  his  mind 
With  fires  that  glowed  when  he  lay  blind ; 
The  watch-fires  of  all  motherkind, — 
The  ardors  that  encompassed  him 
While  he  lay  hid,  unmade  and  dim. 
Beleaguered  as  a  bonden  thrall. 
With  her  lone  body  for  a  wall. 
And  she,  his  stronghold  of  a  year 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      311 

Against  the  armaments  of  fear, — 
Her  arms  his  wreathed  cherubim. 
Fought  with  the  hosts  of  hell  for  him. 
And  smiling  in  the  eyes  of  Death, 
Tore  from  her  heart  his  gift  of  breath. 

"  Yet,  '  Whence  shall  be  their  hardihood. 
If  men  forbear  to  spill  men's  blood?  ' 

"  From  her  uncounted  agony 
Through    climbing    ages    all   worn    by 
Could  he  not  learn  the  way  to  die, 
Transfigured  with  some  radiant  Why? 
From  the  same  wells  of  hero-stufF, 
He  still  might  draw  duress  enough 
To  dare  and  suffer, —  be,  and  build ; 
Till  some  far  flaming  Dream  fulfilled. 
Made  the  loud  song  in  every  vein 
Sing  triumph  to  her,  for  her  pain ; 
Triumph,  of  one  more  glorious  way 
Then  plunder  for  a  beast  of  prey; 
Triumph  at  last,  against  all  odds 
Set  up  by  the  indifferent  gods ! 

"  Man-child, —  the  starveling  without  help. 
Less  able  than  a  tiger's  whelp, — 
Housed  only,  once,  in  her  embrace. 
Weak  bud  of  the  destroying  race ! 
O  fool  and  blind,  and  battled  for. 
Whose  strength  is  this  you  spill  in  war, 
But  hers  ?  —  who  laughed  the  stars  to  scorn. 
When  you  were  born. — 

When  you  were  born. 

*'  In  this  hour  of  her  greatest  sacrifice,  under 
the  most  appalling  load  of  pain  and  bitterness  the 


312      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

world  has  yet  made  her  bear,  the  spirit  of  woman 
rebels.     This  war,  it  is  claimed,  will  bring  to  the 
surface    of    humanity    the    realization    of    many 
ideals,  but  there  are  none  so  vital,  none  that  have 
the  power  of  making  the  future  so  secure,  as  the 
spiritual  awakening  of  woman  to  her  possession 
of  life.     She  has  dropped  intuition  by  the  wayside 
of  the  centuries.     She   has   arrived   at  the   con- 
sciousness that  her  position  is  more  than  a  part- 
nership.    The  responsibility  she  has,  since  the  be- 
ginning of  time,  assumed  in  perpetuating  human 
life  has  turned  in  this  hour  its  other  aspects  to 
her  gaze,  and  reason  has  forced  her  to  take  note 
of  it;  she  must  cure  the  callous  indifference  of 
man,  redeem  his  failure,  and  conserve  life.     Dimly, 
gropingly,  she  has  come  to  realize  that  nature  is 
on  her  side.     This   is   the  message  of  '  Harvest 
Moon.'     It  is  as  if,  with  a  regretful  and  backward 
glance  a^  the  futility  of  man  destroying  man,  to 
agree  upon  the  terms  of  living,  she  frankly  pro- 
claims that  the  future  must  substitute  a  basis  of 
agreement  that  will  suppress,  indeed  wholly  elim- 
inate, this  agency  which  destroys  life." 

"  All  this  I  acknowledge,  but  how  render  the 
message  so  man  will  heed?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  is  just  the  point  which  seems  to  me  to 
give  this  collection  its  extraordinary  value.  Mrs. 
Marks  does  not  reach  to  this  illuminating  faith 
over  pathways  of  abstractions  which  give  no  re- 
ality to  her  counsels  of  hope.  She  deepens  a  dark 
truth  to  make  more  convincing  and  desirous  a 
lustrous  truth.     The  zeal  which  gives  to  the  imag- 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      313 

inative  spirit  its  vision  of  the  future,  works  with 
an  equal  and  terrible  finality,  upon  the  fate  that 
will  fall  upon  the  world,  should  the  curtain  of 
denial  be  dropped  between  that  desirable  future 
and  our  hopes.  The  symbol  she  evokes  cannot 
escape  serious  attention.  With  a  vivid  prophecy, 
beyond  our  revocation,  she  inscribes  upon  the 
imagery  and  haunting  stillness  of  a  picture,  a 
thought  whose  substance  is  appalling  and  arrest- 
ing. I  have  in  mind  Mrs.  Marks'  poem,  '  Harvest 
Moon,'  from  which  subtly  flows  all  the  hopes  and 
fears,  the  clear-eyed  and  wistful  wonder  of  the 
glory  and  purpose  of  life,  in  the  poems  in  her 
volume.  Though  the  poem  is  well-known  to  you 
I  want  to  read  it,"  and  Cassandra  gave: 

"  Over  the  twilight  field. 
Over  the  glimmering  field 

And  bleeding  furrows,  with  their  sodden  yield 
Of  sheaves  that  still  did  wreathe. 
After  the  scythe; 

The  teeming  field,  and  darkly  overstrewn 
With  all  the  garnered  fullness  of  that  moon, — 
Two  looked  upon  each  other. 

One  was  a  Woman,  men  had  called  their  mother : 
And  one  the  Harvest  Moon. 

"  And  one  the  Harvest  Moon 
WTio  stood,  who  gazed 

On  those  unquiet  gleanings,  where  they  bled ; 
Till  the  lone  Woman  said: 

But  we  were  crazed  .  .  . 
W^e  should  laugh  now  together,  I  and  you; 


314      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

We  two. 

You,  for  your  ever  dreaming  it  was  worth 

A  star's  while  to  look  on,  and  light  the  earth ; 

And  I,  for  ever  telling  to  my  mind 

Glory  it  was  and  gladness,  to  give  birth 

To  human  kind. 

I  gave  the  breath, —  and  thought  it  not  amiss, 

I  gave  the  breath  to  men. 

For  men  to  slay  again; 

Lording  it  over  anguish,  all  to  give 

My  life,  that  men  might  live. 

For  this. 

"  '  You  will  be  laughing  now,  remembering 
We  called  you  once  Dead  World,  and  barren  thing, 
Yes,  so  we  called  you  then, 
You,  far  more  wise 
Than  to  give  life  to  men.' 

"  Over  the  field  that  there 
Gave  back  the  skies 
A  scattered  upward  stare 
From  sightless  eyes. 
The  furrowed  field  that  lay 

Striving  awhile,  through  many  a  bleeding  dune 
Of  throbbing  clay, —  but  dumb  and  quiet  soon. 
She  looked;  and  went  her  way. 
The  Harvest  Moon." 

"  That  poem  was  written  in  1914,  when  the  sud- 
den rush  of  war,  like  a  tidal  wave,  went  sweeping 
through  men's  hearts,"  said  Jason. 

"  Yes ;  and  the  backwash  left  a  desolate  beach 
of  anguish  and  passion,"  Cassandia  replied. 
"  From  the  area  of  desolated  moods,  Mrs.  Marks' 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      315 

mind  gathered  the  wreckage  of  driftwood,  and  in 
these  poems  her  imagination  is  burning  that  fuel: 
the  flames  are  a  visioned  life,  exquisitely  colored. 
The  intensity  of  these  visions  leaves  no  mistake  of 
their  cleansing  virtue." 

"  The  great  forces  that  have  been  at  work  upon 
her  sympathies,  are  forces  that  demand  absolutely 
all  that  one  has  to  give,"  observed  Jason. 
"  There  is  no  withholding  of  any  element  for  one's 
personal  mood.  I  think  Mrs.  Marks  gives  splen- 
didly of  herself  in  these  poems.  There  must  have 
been  a  toll  upon  the  spirit  in  writing  them ;  but 
beauty,  and  the  conviction  that  is  born  of  beauty, 
has  amply  compensated  her." 

"  I  seemed  to  see,"  I  ventured  an  opinion,  "  an 
originality  in  these  poems  that  has  less  to  do  with 
the  theme,  than  the  ideas  upon  which  the  theme 
turns.  In  this  respect,  the  book  has  not  a  con- 
ventional note;  a  gratification  that  will  be  deeply 
felt,  especially  where  it  is  so  easy  for  common- 
place viewpoints  to  intrude.  The  poem  '  To  a 
Day '  is  a  good  illustration  of  what  I  mean. 
There  is  an  idea  in  the  poem  which  well-nigh  leaves 
you  breathless." 

"  Between  the  first  harvest  moon  of  1914  and 
that  other  harvest  moon  of  1916,  these  poems, 
dedicated  to  the  women  of  Europe,  were  written," 
Cassandra  picked  up  the  threads  of  her  discourse. 
"  From  the  earlier  poem,  in  the  passage  begin- 
ning, '  Glory  it  was  and  gladness  to  give  birth,' 
the  reader  will  see  in  those  lines,  the  darkness 
which  lay  upon  the  spirit  of  the  poet,  and  how 


316      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

she  groped  through  it  to  weave  that  picture, 
which  one  cannot  forget,  of  the  bewildered  woman 
and  the  mocking  moon.  During  these  two  years, 
this  poet  has  felt  for  all  the  women  of  the  world; 
not  only  felt,  but  here  gives  voice  to  their  great- 
est hopes.  It  has  been  a  furnace,  these  two  years, 
yet  the  spirit  of  the  poet  has  not  for  a  moment 
hesitated  to  walk  through  it,  and  come  out  golden 
in  the  glory  of  these  sapphics,  the  '  Harvest  Moon : 
1916': 

"  Moon,  slow  rising,  over  the  trembling  sea-rim, 
Moon  of  the  lifted  tides  and  their  folded  burden, 
Look,  look  down.     And  gather  the  blinded  oceans. 
Moon  of  compassion. 

"  Come,  white  Silence,  over  the  one  sea  pathway : 
Pour  with  hallowing  hands  on  the  surge  and  outcry, 
Silver  flame;  and  over  the  famished  blackness, 
Petals  of  moonlight. 

"  Once  again,  the  formless  void  of  a  world-wreck 
Gropes  its  way  through  the  echoing  dark  of  chaos; 
Tide  on  tide,  to  the  calling,  lost  horizons, — 
One  in  the  darkness. 

"  You  that  veil  the  light  of  the  all-beholding, 
Shed  white  tidings  down  to  the  dooms  of  longing, 
Down  to  the  timeless  dark:  and  the  sunken  treasures, 
One  in  the  darkness. 

"  Touch  and  harken, —  under  the  shrouding  silver. 
Rise  and  fall,  the  heart  of  the  sea  and  its  legions. 
All  and  one ;  one  with  the  breath  of  the  deathless. 
Rising  and  falling. 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      S17 

"  Touch  and  waken  so,  to  a  far  hereafter. 
Ebb  and  flow,  the  deep,  and  the  dead  in  their  long- 
ing: 
Till  at  last,  on  the  hungering  face  of  the  waters, 
There  shall  be  Light. 

"  Light  of  Light,  give  us  to  see,  for  their  sake. 
Light  of  Light,  grant  them  eternal  peace; 
And  let  light  perpetual  shine  upon  them; 
Light,  everlasting." 

"And  will  there  be  Light  for  Ireland?"  asked 
Psyche. 

"  God  knows  whether  the  particular  kind  of 
light  she  wants  will  be  the  best  for  her,"  Jason 
answered. 

"  One  may  well  think  so,"  I  said ;  "  for  the  be- 
lief is  that  the  Irish  people,  as  a  whole,  were  not  in 
support  of  the  Revolutionary  Brotherhood.  But 
whether  or  not,  the  action  of  the  group  on 
last  Easter  Sunday,  and  the  price  the  leaders 
paid  for  their  unsuccessful  blow  at  the  authority 
of  England,  has  swept  through  the  country  —  and 
indeed,  through  a  large  part  of  the  world,  with 
a  magnificent  spiritual  prestige.  Englishmen  as 
well  as  Irishmen,  Americans  as  well  as  either,  what- 
ever may  be  their  attitude  towards  the  motives, 
have  openly  expressed  their  admiration  for  the 
idealism  which  prompted  the  quixotic  deed. 
Though  the  deed  came  to  nothing  but  a  few  ashes 
on  the  altar  of  Ireland's  hopes,  the  idealism  which 
flamed  on  that  occasion  is  a  message  of  sacrifice 


318      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

and  aspiration  long  to  be  remembered  among  the 
generations  of  men." 

"  That  is  because  Ireland  is  a  land  of  poets," 
exclaimed  Jason.  "  The  most  practical  agricul- 
turist —  who  is  also  the  editor  of  a  paper  devoted 
to  farming  interests  —  is  a  poet  of  the  keenest 
mystical  vision,  of  any  in  Great  Britain  to-day. 
In  the  church,  in  politics,  law  and  scholarship,  the 
poet  is  the  essence  of  the  Irish  character.  And 
when  the  rebellion  broke  forth  last  Easter,  with 
its  brief  but  impressive  fury,  it  was  organized,  and 
conducted,  by  poets  —  and  it  was  as  weak  and  as 
firm  as  the  imaginative  idealism  upon  which  it  was 
founded.  Not  politicians,  but  poets,  were  mar- 
tyred for  the  cause  of  Ireland  and  liberty.  Futile 
and  impracticable,  as  the  revolt  proved  to  be,  they 
were  poets,  and  not  political  patriots,  who  had  the 
courage  to  strike  the  blow.  Poets  and  not  poli- 
ticians laid  down  their  lives  for  what  they  con- 
ceived to  be  a  service  and  an  inspiration  to  their 
fellow  countrymen.  The  politicians  condemned 
the  rebellion  as  inopportune,  unjustifiable  from 
the  point  of  view  of  expediency.  It  was  the  beau- 
tiful dream  of  a  group  of  poets:  the  attempt  to 
shatter  the  yoke  of  England,  and  establish  an 
Irish  Republic.  For  two  generations,  Irish  poli- 
ticians at  Westminster,  with  varying  hopes,  fought 
with  the  weapons  of  debate,  for  a  political  prin- 
ciple. Victory  was  almost  theirs  when  the 
European  war  broke  out.  In  all  that  time  they 
did  not  accomplish  what  a  small  group  of  dream- 
intoxicated  poets   accomplished  in  a   few  hours. 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      319 

Grant  that  the  Irish  Republic  lived  but  for  a  few 
days ;  it  did  come  into  being,  and  was  proclaimed 
to  the  world.  And  the  echo  of  those  few  days 
will  live  longer  in  the  memory  of  the  world  than 
two  generations  of  political  agitation  at  West- 
minster." 

"  And  here  is  James  Stephens,  the  Irish  poet," 
I  said,  "  paying  his  tribute,  which  is  both  a  lament 
and  an  exultation,  to  his  country  and  countrymen 
of  the  rebellion,  in  this  slim  volume,  '  Green 
Branches.'  He  sings  of  '  The  Autumn  in  Ire- 
land: 1915,'  'The  Spring  in  Ireland:  1916,'  and 
in  the  mood  of  '  Joy  Be  With  Us,'  as  a  supplica- 
tion. The  first  poem  is  full  of  settled  melan- 
choly, a  hopelessness  that  can  find  no  way  through 
the  dark  future.  He  makes  the  autumn  mood 
symbolize  a  national  despair : 

"  Straying  apart  in  sad  and  mournful  way, 
Alone,  or  with  my  heart  for  company, 
Keeping  the  tone  of  a  dejected  day 
And  a  bewilderment  that  came  to  me ; 
I  said  —  The  Spring 
Will  never  come  again,  and  there  is  end 
Of  everything. 

"  Day  after  day 
The  sap  will  ebb  away  from  the  great  tree. 
And  when  the  sap  is  gone 
Then  piteously 
She  tumbles  to  the  clay: 
And  we  say  only  —  Such  a  one 
Had  pleasant  shade,  but  there  is  end  of  her. 


320      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  And  you,  and  even  you,  the  year 
Will  drain  and  dry,  and  you  will  disappear. 

"  The  significance  to  me,  of  that  '  will  drain 
and  dry  '  phrase  is,  that  upon  the  top  of  all  those 
other  circumstances  which  have  taken  the  youth 
and  manhood  of  Ireland,  is  the  war.  Mr.  Ste- 
phens visions  Ireland  as  the  very  Niobe  of  na- 
tions. He  acknowledges  his  lament  and  despair 
for  his  country,  by  drawing  a  likeness  between 
himself  and  the  bird  in  the  desolation  of  the  woods, 
who  sings  a  '  failing  song.  The  times  had  caught 
on  him,'  in 

"...  autumn  boughs  he  tried  a  wonted  lay. 
And  was  abashed  to  find  his  music  grim 
As  the  crow's  song." 

"  The  poet  then,"  remarked  Jason,  "  finds  that 
his  countr3^'s  mood  is  his  own.  He  will  make  his 
personal  contribution  a  sacrifice.  He  will  re- 
place the  poet's  joy  and  possession  of  the  world 
with  the  man's  responsibility  and  fear  for  the 
powers,  pursuing  with  evil,  the  spirit  he  loves : 

"  And  so,  behold, 
I  am  a  saddened  elf; 
And,  as  a  deer 
Flies  timidly  to  shade, 
I  fly  to  laughter  and  I  hide  myself. 
And  couch  me  in  the  coverts  that  I  made 
Against  those  bold  ambitions,  and  forswear 
The  palm,  the  prize,  or  what  it  is  of  gear 
A  poet  gets  with  his  appointed  share 
Of  bread  and  beer." 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      321 

*'  It  is  strange,  that  tone  of  exultation  in 
tribute,  which  the  poet  gives  to  the  poem,  '  Spring 
in  Ireland:  1916,'"  said  Psyche.  "In  a  sense 
that  hour  was  more  swiftly  and  darkly  sharp  for 
Ireland.  But  to  the  poet,  the  strength  and 
beauty  of  the  Irish  spirit  were  evoked  in  the  hour 
of  defeat.  It  is  the  magnificent  spiritual  prestige 
of  a  race  shining  forth  in  the  hour  of  defeat. 
The  noblest  and  best,  making  the  highest  sacri- 
fice. It  is  the  most  beautiful  of  these  poems,"  and 
she  read : 

"  Do  not  forget  my  charge  I  beg  of  you ; 
That  of  what  flow'rs  you  find  of  fairest  hue 
And  sweetest  odour  you  do  gather  those 
Are  best  of  all  the  best  —  A  fragrant  rose, 
A  tall  calm  lily  from  the  waterside, 
A  half-blown  poppy  leaning  at  the  side 
Its  graceful  head  to  dream  among  the  corn, 
Forget-me-nots  that  seem  as  though  the  morn 
Had  tumbled  down  and  grew  into  the  clay, 
And  hawthorn  buds  that  swing  along  the  way 
Easing  the  hearts  of  those  who  pass  them  by 
Until  they  find  contentment  —  Do  not  cry, 
But  gather  buds,  and  with  them  greenery 
Of  slender  branches  taken  from  a  tree 
Well  bannered  by  the  spring  that  saw  them  fall : 
Then  you,  for  you  are  cleverest  of  all 
Who  have  slim  fingers  and  are  pitiful. 
Brimming  your  lap  with  bloom  that  you  may  cull, 
Will  sit  apart,  and  weave  for  every  head 
A  garland  of  the  flow'rs  you  gathered. 

"  Be  green  upon  their  graves,  O  happy  Spring, 
For  they  were  young  and  eager  who  are  dead ; 


322      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Of  all  tilings  that  are  young  and  quivering 

With  eager  life  be  they  remembered: 

They  move  not  here,  they  have  gone  to  the  clay. 

They  cannot  die  again  for  liberty; 

Be  they  remembered  of  their  land  for  aye; 

Green  be  their  graves  and  green  their  memory, 

"  Fragrance  and  beauty  come  in  with  the  green, 
The  ragged  bushes  put  on  sweet  attire. 
The  birds  forget  how  chill  these  airs  have  been. 
The  clouds  bloom  out  again  and  move  in  fire; 
Blue  is  the  dawn  of  day,  calm  is  the  lake, 
And  merry  sounds  are  fitful  in  the  morn; 
In  covert  deep  the  young  blackbirds  awake. 
They  shake  their  wings  and  sing  upon  the  morn. 

"  At  springtime  of  the  year  you  came  and  swung 
Green  flags  above  the  newly-greening  earth ; 
Scarce  were  the  leaves  unfolded,  they  were  young, 
Nor  had  outgrown  the  wrinkles  of  their  birth: 
Comrades  they  thought  you  of  their  pleasant  hour, 
They  had  but  glimpsed  the  sun  when  they  saw  you ; 
They  heard  your  songs  e'er  birds  had  singing  power. 
And  drank  your  blood  e'er  that  they  drank  the  dew. 

"  Then  you  went  down,  and  then,  and  as  in  pain, 
The  Spring  affrighted  fled  her  leafy  ways, 
The  clouds  came  to  the  earth  in  gusty  rain. 
And  no  sun  shone  again  for  many  days: 
And  day  by  day  they  told  that  one  was  dead, 
And  day  by  day  the  season  mourned  for  you. 
Until  that  count  of  woe  was  finished. 
And  Spring  remembered  all  was  yet  to  do. 

"  She  came  with  mirth  of  wind  and  eager  leaf. 
With  scampering  feet  and  reaching  out  of  wings. 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE      323 

She  laughed  among  the  boughs  and  banished  grief. 
And  cared  again  for  all  her  baby  things ; 
Leading  along  the  joy  that  has  to  be, 
Bidding  her  timid  buds  think  on  the  May, 
And  told  that  summer  comes  with  victory, 
And  told  the  hope  that  is  all  creatures  stay. 

Go  Winter  now  unto  your  own  abode. 
Your  time  is  done,  and  Spring  is  conqueror 
Lift  up  with  all  your  gear  and  take  your  road. 
For  she  is  here  and  brings  the  sun  with  her; 
Now  are  we  resurrected,  now  are  we. 
Who  lay  so  long  beneath  an  icy  hand. 
New-risen  into  life  and  liberty. 
Because  the  Spring  is  come  into  our  land. 

In  other  lands  they  may, 
With  public  joy  or  dole  along  the  way. 
With  pomp  and  pageantry  and  loud  lament 
Of  drums  and  trumpets,  and  with  merriment 
Of  grateful  hearts,  lead  into  rest  and  sted 
The  nation's  dead. 

If  we  had  drums  and  trumpets,  if  we  had 

Aught  of  heroic  pitch  or  accent  glad 

To  honor  you  as  bids  tradition  old. 

With  banners  flung  or  draped  in  mournful  fold. 

And  pacing  cortege;  these  would  we  not  bring 

For  your  last  journeying. 

We  have  no  drums  or  trumpets;  naught  have  we 

But  some  green  branches  taken  from  a  tree. 

And  flowers  that  grow  at  large  in  mead  and  vale; 

Nothing  of  choice  have  we,  or  of  avail 

To  do  you  honor  as  our  honor  deems. 

And  as  your  worth  beseems. 


324      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  Sleep  drums  and  trumpets  yet  a  little  time: 
All  ends  and  all  begins,  and  there  is  chime 
At  last  where  discord  was,  and  joy  at  last 
Where  woe  wept  out  her  eyes :  be  not  downcast. 
Here  is  prosperity  and  goodly  cheer. 
For  life  does  follow  death,  and  death  is  here." 

"  Splendid !  "  murmured  Cassandra. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  A  bright,  cleansing  note 
runs  through  the  poem,  a  note  that  rises  above 
the  pitiful  outer  and  temporary  circumstance  of 
the  event.  In  other  lands,  public  joy  and  dole, 
pomp  and  pageantry  would  '  lead  into  rest  and 
sted  the  nation's  dead,'  but  Ireland  would  not,  if 
she  could,  as  '  bids  tradition  old,'  bring  these  trap- 
pings for  the  Mast  journeying'  of  the  martyrs. 
The  spirit  is  too  profoundly  reverent,  too  con- 
scious, in  a  new  light,  of  the  vision  in  the  deed,  to 
be  otherwise." 

"  War  —  but  no  laughter  in  that  mood,"  Jason 
exclaimed.     "  Dreams  and  prophecy,  instead." 

"  For  that  kind  of  philosophy  we  have  to  turn 
to  Mr.  Oppenheim,"  I  said.  "  And  in  doing  so 
we  turn  to  a  great  democratic  message." 

"  The  tremendous  force  displayed  by  Mr.  Op- 
penheim in  his  previous  volume  '  Songs  for  the 
New  Age,'  "  Jason  said,  "  was  the  kind  of  force 
which  emanates  from  a  prophet  who  is  under  the 
spell  of  an  absorbing  vision.  The  utterance  came 
forth  from  an  impetuous  conviction ;  the  substance 
burns  with  truths  whose  origins  are  as  inscrutable 
as  they   are  unalterable.     The  whole  impression 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE     325 

of  that  book  was  taken  from  life,  the  complex 
existence  of  the  modern  world ;  and  it  was  su- 
premely significant  that  that  life's  social  mood 
and  temper,  was  habited  with  spiritual  visions. 
The  book  was,  in  its  final  analysis,  a  chant  of 
democracy,  but  of  a  democracy  elevated  from  the 
gross  and  irrational  bombast  of  the  propagandist, 
into  the  ritual  of  beauty.  The  mood  was  so  rev- 
erently symbolized,  in  all  variations,  that  for  the 
first  time  in  our  day,  and  our  verse,  the  creed  of 
social  balances  and  aspiration  present  its  peti- 
tion with  reason  and  dignity ;  and  at  the  same 
time  was  full  of  a  passionate  sincerity,  fervor, 
and  magic  of  the  spirit.  It  was  not  only  the 
tolerant  attitude  and  sympathy  displayed,  which 
made  those  poems  notable,  but  the  visualizing  in- 
stinct which  made  apparent  those  images  behind 
the  veil  of  existence,  so  often  baffling  to  our  un- 
derstanding. 

"  In  '  War  and  Laughter,'  "  Jason  continued, 
"  Mr.  Oppenheim  expresses  this  same  substance, 
rather  with  intensity  though,  than  expansion. 
Life,  for  him,  is  still  an  explicable  battleground, 
but  man  is  still  pursuing  his  conflict  blindly. 
The  poet  sums  it  all  up  in  the  poem  '  Creed,' — 
sums  up  the  bewildering  forces  which  take  the  in- 
dividual out  of  his  security,  and  makes  his  ex- 
periences a  series  of  antagonistic  emotions.  But 
for  his  own  part,  he  works  out  a  sane  philosophy, 
the  kind  of  philosophy  it  is  difficult  to  make  men 
understand  and  accept."     And  Jason  read: 


S^6      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  After  all, 
With  clean  laughter  and  a  hard  soul, 
I  greet  the  morning, 

"  My  darkness  was  full  of  disturbance: 
The  philosophers  and  the  scientists  and  the  doctors 

were  wrangling  together: 
And  each  grew  angry  with  greed  for  my  soul. 
And  angrier  to  find  the  others  also  greedy  for  me. 

"  My  friend,  the  Mechanist,  eyed  me : 

'  You  are  dull,'  said  he, '  if  you  reject  my  belief  .  .  . 

Life,  sir,  is  a  rearrangement  of  atoms : 

You  are  a  machine: 

The  Universe  is  purposeless: 

It  contains  no  more  to-day  than  it  did  a  millennium 
of  eons  ago. 

My  chemico-physical  friend:  this  is  the  fiat  of  Sci- 
ence.' 

"  '  Thanks,'  said  I  .  .  . 
'  This  relief  is  great. 

Good-by,  Old  Ethics,  and  my  Immortal  Soul; 
This  machine  is  quit  of  you.' 

"  '  Hold,'  cried  a  voice. 
And  my  friend,  the  Finalist,  buttoned  me  .  .  . 
'  Who  rearranged  the  atoms  } 
Who  wrought  the  eye  that  beholds  the  shows  of  this 

Earth? 
Who  wrought  Man,  the  highest? 
There  is  a  plan  working  out; 

We  move  toward  "  one  far-off  divine  event ".  .  . 
Believe  this,  or  die  damned." 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE     327 

' '  Excellent/  said  I  .  .  . 

'  I  am  glad  to  know  I  am  planned  and  moved  .  .  . 
Farewell,  Originality,  farewell,  Responsibility  — 
Use  me,  O  Rearranger  of  Atoms !  ' 

'  Both  wrong,'  came  a  sore  whisper: 

And   behold,  there  stood  friend  What-do-you-call- 

him?  .  .  . 
At  any  rate  he  thus  delivered  himself  .  .  . 
'  Ahem,  of  course,  as  it  were,  the  world's  a  machine. 
But  then,  too,  purposes  invade  it  .  .  . 
It's  on  the  make  .  .  . 
What  make?     Who  knows? 
It  may  go  here,  it  may  go  there  .   .  . 

'  A  vital  impetus  impels  it, 

A  sheaf  of  tendencies  expands  through  it  .  .  . 

There  is  no  goal  .  .   . 

Eternal  Creativeness,  Variability,  Newness : 

The  past  bound  up  in  the  present  makes  the  future. 

And  Man's  the  crest  of  the  wave.' 

'  Greatly  obliged,'  said  I, 

'  Come  on.  Old  Vital  Imi^etus : 

Come,  Herd  of  Tendencies ; 

Let's  start  a  fresh  creation  to-morrow  morning.' 

'  Eh,  what  is  this  ?  ' 

Alas,  I  was  confronted  by  an  antique  Dualist : 

'  Do  you  not  know  you  stand  in  the  clutch  of  Error  ? 

Rash  man,  the  World's  not  One,  and  neither  is  it 

Many: 
The  World  is  Two: 
There's  body  and  there's  spirit. 
And  superimposed  on  the  natural  order  is  the  moral 

order  .  .  . 


328      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

There  is  a  moral  world :  an  ethical  framework ; 
And  to  its  laws  your  soul  must  bow  .  .  . 
Be  ethical,  or  be  damned.' 


"  '  Good  God ! '  I  sighed, 
'  How  simple  .  .  . 

I'll  study  the  code  and  know  just  what  to  do  .  .  . 
An  end  of  worry ! ' 

"  A  dozen  voices  spoke  at  once : 

'  You  say  good  God  .  .  .  remember  the  children  of 
Abraham  .  .  .' 

'  Nay/  said  another,  '  Christ  was  the  Lord  Incar- 
nate .  .  .' 

'Christ?     Buddha!' 

'  Buddha?  Mahomet,  the  only  true  prophet  of  Al- 
lah!' 

'  Tut !  it's  all  a  neurosis :  a  mere  subconscious  im- 
pulsion !  ' 

'  Oh,  no,  it's  economic  determinism ! ' 

'Matter?  There  is  no  matter  .  .  .  the  world  of 
sense  is  illusion  .  .  . 

Thought  is  reality.' 

"  The  night  grew  dark  and  full  of  disturbance  .  .  . 
And  I  knew  then  that  the  philosophers,  the  scien- 
tists, the  doctors  and  the  divines 
Were  all  greedy  after  my  soul  .  .  . 

"  It  was  well  that  morning  broke, 
Well  that  revolt  swept  through  me,  lifting  up, 
Well,  that  after  all. 
With  clean  laughter  and  a  hard  soul, 
I  could  greet  the  morning. 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE     329 

*  Friends  all/  said  I, 

*  Perhaps  Life  is  what  you  each  say  it  is  .  .  . 
But  I  suspect  that  Life  is  both  less  and  more  .  .  . 

I  suspect  that  the  human  mind  is  a  very  limited  or- 
gan ..  . 

I  suspect  that  it  loves  simplicity,  that  it  loves  to 
reduce  multiplicity  to  unity, 

That  it  craves  graspable  formulas  and  prescriptions: 

And  I  suspect  that  the  formula  of  each  man  is  the 
man  himself: 

The  sort  of  breakfast  he  cares  for,  and  the  kind  of 
pride  he  indulges  in. 

And  his  happiness  or  misery  in  his  love-life, 

And  the  kind  of  impression  he  wants  to  make  .  .   . 

A  healthy  belly  rejoices  that  it  is  chemico-physical. 

And  a  hardy  ego  enjoys  being  a  god, 

And  a  methodical  card-index  soul  is  glad  of  a 
planned-out  universe, 

And  a  wild  gipsy  believes  in  chaos. 

Whereas  a  child  longs  for  God,  the  Father. 

Now,  friends  all  .  .   . 

I  reject  none  of  your  formulas:  no,  not  a  one  .  .  . 

They  are  excellent  tools  to  do  excellent  work  .  .  . 

And  then,  too,  they  keep  you  in  pride  and  healthy 
defiance: 

But  as  to  accepting  them:  that  is  another  mat- 
ter .  .  . 

Rather  will  I  discover  what  I  am, 

And  accept  those  tools  which  will  help  to  unfold  me 
further  in  selfhood, 

And  such  things  as  I  need  for  my  own  pride  and  my 
own  tasks. 

And  I  will  accept  them  very  gingerly. 

Not  as  Truth,  my  friends,  but  as  Tools  alone  .  .  . 


330      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  one  only  thing  shall  be  a  dogma  with  me : 
Namely,  that  little  is  known:  and  that  I  know  very 
little  .  .  . 

"  '  So  I  will  write  me  songs  that  please  my  own  soul, 

And  walk  in  the  garden  and  smell  the  roses  and  for- 
get-me-nots, 

And  drink  a  cocktail,  if  I  have  a  mind  to, 

And  give  myself  to  the  mystery  of  this  enveloping 
world. 

Send  out  my  feelers  through  the  dark  to  the  un- 
touchable stars, 

And  the  almost  equally  untouchable  men  and  women 
around  me  .  .  . 

Sensitively  respond  to  the  weather,  and  the  splen- 
dors of  art,  and  the  life  of  cities. 

And  find  me  a  woman  who  meets  me  with  glad  re- 
sponses. 

And  love  mightily  .  .  . 

"  '  And  I  shall  be  as  little  afraid  of  laughter  as  of 
tears  .  .  . 

Read  philosophy  and  science  with  zest,  and  test 
them  out  against  the  smell  of  honeysuckle  .  .  . 

Ponder  on  the  universe,  and  then  kiss  the  lips  of 
my  adored  one  ... 

And  I  shall  be  unafraid  of  the  mightiest  pur- 
poses .   .   . 

If  I  see  for  my  soul  an  unfolding,  I  shall  strive  to 
unfold  it  so. 

And  if  I  find  friends  who  can  share  the  good  of 
life  with  me,  I  shall  bind  them  to  my  heart  .  .  . 

"  '  For,  dear  Doctrinaires, 
I  too  am  greedy  after  my  own  soul: 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE     331 

And  I  believe  Life  is  greater  than  any  of  our  state- 
ments about  it. 

And  I  believe  in  Experience,  as  a  realization  be- 
yond the  power  of  thought, 

And  there  is  something  in  me  that  can  arise  and 
laugh  freshly  after  defeat, 

Yea,  even  after  absorbing  intricate  logic  of  philo- 
sophical web-spinners. 

"  '  A  man  before  these  mysteries, 
A  man  against  vastness  and  multiple  Life, 
With  awe,  reverence,  impudence,  gaiety,  anger,  de- 
light, 
I  give  myself  to  the  glories  of  this  day, 
I  move  on  by  the  North  Star  of  Self. 

And  even  if  this  be  creed  also, 
I  say,  let  it  be  so  .  .  .  * 

It  is  at  least  my  own ! 

So,  after  all, 
With  clean  laughter  and  a  hard  soul, 
I  greet  the  morning.' 

"  This  is  the  existence  that  he  accepts  for  him- 
self," Jason  went  on,  "  and  it  flows  between  war 
and  laughter.  Those  two  words  denote  the  poles 
between  which  man's  life  is  bound.  It  is,  how- 
ever, a  philosophy  that  has  its  roots  in  the  earth, 
and  its  flower  in  the  air  of  eternity.  The  poet 
has  too  profound  a  grasp  of  reality  to  deny  that 
the  very  basis  of  life  is  war;  the  struggle  that 
perpetually  goes  on  in  man,  between  his  desires 
and  the  things  to  be  possessed;  between  his  body 


332      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

and  his  spirit.  There  is  a  weapon  against  the 
absolute  domination  of  this  force  —  and  that 
weapon  is  laughter.  Man  can  turn  against  the 
darkness  of  his  problems  the  light  of  his  natural 
joys;  he  should  find  in  the  recognition  of  this 
strength  that  he  possesses,  his  salvation  from 
eternal  despair,  and  gain  through  this  salvation, 
the  faith  that  both  life  and  the  world  are  good. 
'Behold,  though  you  are  terrible,'  he  tells  the 
world,  we 

"...  we  laugh  back,  and  treat  you,  at  best,  as  a 

jolly  comrade. 
But  it's  the  wickedest  child  that  is  the  darling  .  .  . 
We  are  your  darlings,  are  we  not? 
Truly  now  fine  impudent  young  gods  have  risen  to 

companion  you. 
Yes,  to  transcend  you,  and  by  transcending,  bring 

you  to  new  fulfilments. 

"  For  sublimity  has  bungled  .  .  . 
It  simply  spewed  out  Life,  haphazard, 
Till  by  divine  accidents,  and  out  of  the  deadliest 

purposes, 
We  were  born:  to  see:  to  know:  to  take  hold: 
To  laugh  away  fear. 

"  Laughter  saves  us : 
Still  more  than  half  of  us  is  buried  in  the  quick- 
sands, 
Still  we  suffer. 

Still  we  doubt  and  are  damned  .  .  . 
But  comes  the  moment  when  we  take  a  square  look 
at  ourselves. 


THE  DREAM  ON  ITS  THRONE     333 

And  seeing  how  absurd  our  antics  are,  laugh  and  are 
healed  .  .  . 

"  And   so,  perhaps,  the  laughing  animal  shall  save 
creation  .  .   . 

"  Interfused  with  this  message,"  Jason  still 
went  on,  and  he  seemed  so  happy  and  anxious 
in  his  interpretation,  we  did  not  interrupt  him, 
"  is  a  sense  of  the  richness  of  the  world.  If  Mr. 
Oppenheim's  poems  lacked  this,  all  of  their  funda- 
mental meaning  and  reality  would  fall  out  like 
the  bottom  from  a  tub.  Grant  that  he  makes  his 
dissatisfaction  felt,  of  the  injustices  and  tyranny 
of  human  actions,  of  the  sorry  spectacle  modern 
civilization  makes  of  itself,  in  the  relations  be- 
tween the  strong  and  the  weak ;  of  his  groping 
doubts,  sometimes,  of  the  beneficent  scheme  and 
purposes  of  the  universe ;  grant  the  sad  confession 
he  makes  in  the  poem  '  1914  —  and  After  ' ;  grant 
the  bitter  iconoclasm  of  his  poem  '  The  New  God,' 
—  and  still  you  must  grant  that  his  heart  holds  in 
its  simplicities,  a  reassuring  faith  in  the  divinity 
of  common  things  and  experiences." 

Jason  paused  a  moment,  and  looked  upon  the 
scene  about  him  as  if  listening  to  some  mystical 
but  imperative  voice.  "  Though  it  is  not  quite 
the  time,  the  spirit  is  all  here,"  he  said  with  elu- 
sive meaning.  He  had  opened  his  book  again, 
and  turned  the  leaves  to  a  page  which  he  held 
open  with  his  forefinger.  "  As  a  final  word  for 
and  from  Mr.  Oppenheim,"  he  began  again,  "  I 
am  going  to  read  this  sonnet,  which  is  not  only 


334      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

an  appropriate  conclusion  to  his  philosophy,  but 
an  expression  of  this  " —  waving  his  hand  to  indi- 
cate the  scene  — "  setting  and  its  spirit."  Then 
he  opened  the  book  and  read: 

"  Now  golden  October,  crowned  with  the  grape,  is 
singing. 
While  the  javelin  winds  against  the  woods  are 
hurled. 
Glorious  from  the  blue  the  sun  is  flinging 

His  rain-rinsed  brilliance  on  the  vivid  world: 
And  the  wine-mad  month  in  red  and  gold  regalia. 

Scattering  leaves,  sowing  valley  and  hill. 
Goes  out  dancing  to  death  in  a  Bacchanalia, 
Laughing,  singing,  for  she  dies  with  a  will. 

"  Fully  lived  has  the  year,  so  she  dies  in  laughter: 
For  all  that  spends  itself,  is  ready  for  death  .  .  . 
O  my  beloved,  let  us  live  hereafter, 

Pour  ourselves  in  each  other,  spend  our  breath. 
Love   in  the   uttermost  loving,   so   that  when 

quaffing 
Death's   black   liquor,   we   toast   one    another, 
laughing." 


XV 

"A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  WERE  OURS" 

I  EXPECTED  Jason  to  be  almost  fanatically  en- 
thusiastic when  we  came  to  our  next  discussion. 
He  expanded,  as  it  were,  in  a  dream  that  wrapped 
him  like  a  mist  —  a  glorious  mist  through  which 
the  sun  washed  a  crimson-tinted  glow.  I  feared 
for  a  while  that  the  weather  would  put  a  damper 
upon  his  exultant  mood,  for  the  day  broke  with  a 
dull,  threatening  sky.  But  by  noon  it  had  cleared, 
and  the  countryside,  when  we  reached  The  Farm, 
was  bathed  in  the  glory  of  the  mid-September  sun- 
light. On  our  way  to  the  woods  I  noticed  that 
same  god-like  erectness  of  body,  with-  its  air  of 
command  and  largeness,  which  Jason  brought 
down  to  The  Farm  on  that  summer  day  when  the 
spiritual  strength  of  Robinson's  poetry  had 
taught  him  how  to  triumph  over  the  delusions  of 
life.  He  led  us  a  rapid  pace  up  the  Derry  Road, 
and  turned  into  the  path  leading  to  our  grove 
with  a  swing  that  had  music  and  exaltation  in 
it.  When  we  reached  the  pine  he  stood,  openea 
the  book  he  carried  —  the  act  was  so  compelling 
that  it  would  have  been  sacrilege  for  us  to  do 
less  than  stand  also  —  and  began  to  read,  in  a 

voice  which  flowed  out  on  the  opening  lines  with 

335 


336      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

mingled  pity  and  scorn,  rising,  on  the  closing 
lines,  to  a  full  round  note  of  triumph  and  exulta- 
tion. What  he  read  was  Alan  Seeger's  ode  for 
the  American  soldiers  fallen  for  France. 

There  was  a  light  in  Jason's  face  when  he 
stopped  reading.  A  light  that  made  us  silent. 
"  I  need  not  tell  you  the  name  of  the  poem  from 
which  those  lines  were  taken,"  he  said  after  a 
moment,  "  nor  need  I  tell  you  the  occasion  for 
which  they  were  written.  You  know,  you  must 
know.  Only  this  need  I  say,  that  it  is  the  voice 
of  a  man  who  saw  the  Gleam.  I  knew  Alan 
Seeger ;  and  when  I  say  that,  I  mean  I  knew  him 
as  well  as  man  was  able  to  know  him.  We  know 
him  better  now  —  that  he  is  dead.  We  know  him 
as  the  Sir  Galahad  —  for  the  English-speaking 
world  —  of  the  European  war.  ...  I  might  have 
heard  that  chant  breaking  triumphantly  from  his 
wounded  body  at  Belloy-en-Santere,  of  which  the 
Egyptian  Rif  Bear  speaks,  sweeping  past  him  to 
the  charge,  like  the  voice  of  God  saying,  '  On  to 
victory  for  Justice  and  Democracy,'  had  fate 
taught  me  in  childhood  an  indifference  to  the 
Mosaic  tablet  of  instructions  —  but  I  missed  what 
Seeger  and  his  companions  gained.  God  knows  I 
am,  however,  one  of  those  of  whom  Seeger's  friend, 
John  Hall  Wheelock,  speaks  in  the  tribute  he 
wrote  to  the  memory  of  the  soldier-poet,  when  he 
says,  '  Seeger  had  become,  in  a  sense,  the  mouth- 
piece of  many  Americans  who  in  heart,  at  least, 
are  anything  but  neutral,  and  who  in  heart  have 
responded  to  his  challenging  and  exalted  celebra- 


"  A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  "  337 

tion  of  the  cause  which  he  himself,  with  life  and 
song,  served  so  passionately  and  so  completely.'  " 

One  by  one,  as  if  by  an  almost  unconscious  de- 
sire not  to  distract  Jason,  we  had  slipped  into 
our  places  on  the  ground.  Jason  still  stood, 
leaning  with  book  in  hand  against  the  trunk  of  a 
tree.  The  man  had  seemed  under  the  personal 
influence  of  his  dead  friend.  I  could  see  that  when 
he  thought  of  his  poetry  he  wished  to  shake  him- 
self free.  Yet  it  was  only  by  a  gradual  stage  that 
he  succeeded  in  doing  so.  His  emotions  had  been 
deeply  moved,  and  it  was  only  when  he  felt  surer 
of  himself  that  he  went  on. 

"  Poets  have  been  killed  in  action,"  he  began ; 
"  poets  already  famous,  poets  unknown  and  in 
the  first  flush  of  confidence  and  creation.  To 
these  latter,  the  war  has  been  a  nourishing  mother 
of  aspiration  and  vision.  There  has  been  some- 
thing sacerdotal  in  the  way  these  3'oung  poets  of  all 
lands  have  laid  down  their  lives  upon  the  terrible 
altar  of  war;  their  spirits,  changing  as  it  were, 
in  the  fullness  of  their  gifts  to  humanity.  Who- 
ever can  visualize  —  and  who  cannot?  —  these 
brave  figures,  marching  undaunted  into  the  dark- 
ness, must  see  a  glory  about  them  which  comes 
less  from  the  ordinary  physical  bravery  that  men 
know,  than  from  that  inner  glory  of  spiritual 
dream  in  which  is  the  irresistible  victory  of  life 
over  death,  of  right  over  wrong,  of  personal  con- 
viction over  all  the  other  considerations  of  false 
peace  and  the  sensuous  ease  of  security.  They 
have  gone  forth  as  children,  erect  in  the  stature 


338      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

of  the  larger  manhood ;  the  rosy  bloom  of  life  upon 
their  countenances,  of  the  promise  of  the  future 
in  the  art  through  which  they  had  glimpsed  the 
image  of  beauty  and  heard  the  rapt  appeals  of 
truth.  In  the  last  hour  of  their  lives,  they  have 
been  like  roses  cast  into  vinegar.  It  was  so 
Rupert  Brooke  went,  England's  hero-poet,  and 
it  was  so  Alan  Seeger  went,  America's  hero-poet 
who,  fighting  and  dying  for  France,  also  fought 
and  died  for  the  conscience  of  America. 

"  Both  these  poets,"  continued  Jason  with  crit- 
ical discernment,  "  have  presented  the  critic  with 
a  task.  That  task  is  to  resist  the  dictates  of 
sentiment.  Both  were  poets  of  acceptable  gifts 
before  they  became  soldiers,  but  after  becoming 
soldiers  they  developed  into  poets  of  compelling 
gifts.  One  could  leave  or  take  what  they  wrote 
before  they  went  through  the  spiritual  baptism  of 
war;  but  one  has  no  choice  now,  cannot  escape 
a  possession  which  is  the  common  heritage  of  hu- 
manity. It  is  scarcely  a  question  of  differentia- 
tion of  power,  as  an  intensification  of  values.  In 
one  leap,  as  it  were,  each  poet  compassed  a  mys- 
tery —  the  mystery  that  forced  a  stream  through 
the  being  of  the  poet,  and  two  marriageable  ele- 
ments yearned  across  opposite  banks  at  the 
promise  of  union.  The  war  bridged  that  mys- 
tery, and  the  elements  leaped  across  to  the  em- 
brace of  experience.  With  Seeger  it  was  an 
embrace  which  carried  in  its  action,  a  fatalism 
whose  serenity  was  a  particularly  vivid  force,  a 
force  that  had  something  new  in  its  substance  of 


"  A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  "  339 

sacrificial  decisions  in  modem  humanity.  Among 
the  '  Last  Poems,  1916,'  all  the  product  of  Alan 
Seeger's  final  period,  there  is  a  group  of  twelve 
sonnets,  more  personal,  in  a  sense,  than  the  other 
poems  which  express  his  feeling  and  philosophy 
in  relation  to  his  part  in  the  war.  The  sixth  of 
these  sonnets  presents  the  interaction  of  a  for- 
saken desire  upon  the  poet's  serene  mood  of  fa- 
tality. 

"  Mr.  Archer,  in  his  admirably  balanced  intro- 
duction to  this  first  and  final  gathering  of  Alan 
Seeger's  poems,  says  that  the  book  '  contains  the 
undesigned,  but  all  the  more  spontaneous  and  au- 
thentic, biography  of  a  very  rare  spirit.  It  con- 
tains the  record  of  a  short  life,  into  which  was 
crowded  far  more  of  keen  experience  and  high  as- 
piration —  of  the  thrill  of  sense  and  the  rapture 
of  soul  —  than  it  is  given  to  most  men,  even  of 
high  vitality,  to  extract  from  a  life  twice  the 
length.'  If  I  do  not  quite  agree  with  Mr.  Archer 
that  the  message  of  Alan  Seeger's  art  was  '  not 
a  philosophy  but  an  irresistible  emotion,'  I  can 
agree  most  heartily  that  in  these  poems  there 
is  a  '  direct  perception,  an  intuition,  of  the  beauty 
and  wonder  of  the  universe  —  an  intuition  too 
overpowering  to  be  seriously  disturbed  by  the  ex- 
istence of  pain  and  evil,  some  of  which,  at  any 
rate,  has  its  value  as  a  foil,  a  background,  to 
joy.'  I  should  say  there  was  a  philosophy, 
which  expressed  itself  through  emotion.  And 
from  it  the  poet  blew  all  the  vapors  of  abstrac- 
tion, and  proved  the  tenets  by  immolation.     He 


340      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

was  not,  which  may  come  to  what  Mr.  Archer 
means,  a  philosopher,  but  a  fragment  of  philos- 
ophy in  himself.  This  is  apparent  in  that  notable 
piece  of  prose  he  wrote  from  the  trenches,  '  As 
a  Soldier  Thinks,'  and  from  the  scraps  which  Mr. 
Archer  prints  from  his  letters,  in  the  introduction 
to  this  volume.  And  it  is  here  in  the  poems,  with 
no  less  conviction;  and  only  with  the  difference 
which  utterance  in  verse  gives  to  thought  and  feel- 
ings. 

"  The  pure  quality  of  the  poetic  temperament 
in  Alan  Seeger,  Mr.  Archer  states  with  conclusive 
discernment.  '  There  are  three  more  or  less 
clearly-marked  elements  in  a  poet's  equipment,' 
he  writes ;  '  observation,  passion,  reflection,  or  in 
simpler  terms,  seeing,  feeling  and  thinking.  The 
first  two  are  richly  represented  in  the  following 
poems,  the  third,  as  was  natural,  much  less  so. 
The  poet  was  too  fully  occupied  in  garnering  im- 
pressions and  experiences  to  think  of  coordinat- 
ing and  interpreting  them.  That  would  have 
come  later;  and  later,  too,  would  have  come  a 
general  deepening  of  the  spiritual  content  of  his 
work.  There  had  been  nothing  in  either  his  out- 
ward or  his  inward  life  that  could  fairly  be  called 
suffering  and  struggle.  He  had  not  sounded  the 
depths  of  human  experience,  which  is  as  much  as 
to  say  that  neither  had  he  risen  to  the  heights. 
This  he  no  doubt  recognized  himself,  and  was  not 
thinking  merely  of  the  date  of  composition  when 
he  called  his  pre-war  poems  "  Juvenilia."  Great 
emotions,  and  perhaps  great  sorrows,  would  have 


"  A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  "  341 

come  to  him  in  due  time,  and  would  have  deepened 
and  enriched  his  vein  of  song.  The  first  great 
emotion  which  found  him,  when  he  rallied  to  the 
trumpet  call  of  France  and  freedom,  did,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  lend  new  reality  and  poignancy 
to  his  verse;  but  the  soldier's  life  left  him  small 
leisure  for  composition.  We  must  regard  his 
work,  then,  as  a  fragment,  a  mere  foretaste  of 
what  he  might  have  achieved  had  his  life  been  pro- 
longed. But,  devoted  though  he  was  to  his  art, 
he  felt  that  to  live  greatly  is  better  than  to  write 
greatly.  The  unfulfilment  of  his  poetic  hopes  and 
dreams  meant  the  fulfilment  of  a  higher  ambi- 
tion.' 

"  Yet  the  '  Juvenilia,'  as  Alan  Seeger  chose  to 
characterize  all  those  poems  written  before  the 
war,"  said  Jason,  "  are  scarcel}^  those  inappro- 
priate beginnings  which  grace  or  disgrace  a  po- 
etic career.  They  have,  as  should  be  right,  the 
affinity  with  youthful  associations,  and  that  mood 
of  pensiveness  which  give  a  quality  to  the  drama 
of  youth.  They  are  touched  with  the  color, 
fragrance,  and  magnificence  of  the  poet's  Mexican 
recollections,  and  show  an  influence  of  classical 
culture,  from  which  source  Alan  Seeger  evoked 
his  first  images  of  beauty.  In  the  '  Ode  to  Natu- 
ral Beauty,'  which  opens  the  volume,  we  find  the 
poet  confessing  that  '  My  breast  burns  with  lust 
for  splendors  unrevealed,'  and  in  the  lines, 

"  My  youth  with  visions  of  such  glory  nursed_, 
Ye  have  beheld,  nor  ever  seen  my  feet 


S^S      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

On  any  venture  set,  but  'twas  the  thirst 
For  Beauty  willed  them  — 

we  note  that  desire  in  his  passion  which  burned 
to  such  clear  flame  in  the  poems  born  of  the  war. 

"  In  these  war  poems  the  poet  speaks  unfalter- 
ingly from  the  soul  and  from  no  other  source  but 
the  soul.  'The  Aisne  (1914;— 15),'  'Champagne, 
1915-16,'  'Hosts,'  'Maktoob,'  '  Liebstod,'  'A 
Message  to  America,'  the  '  Ode  in  Memory  of  the 
American  Volunteers  Fallen  for  France,'  and  '  I 
Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death,'  the  spirit  of 
the  man  is  baptismal  with  the  living  fire  of 
poetry." 

Jason  paused.  Still  standing,  there  came  into 
his  face  again  that  light  we  had  seen  when  he 
read  those  noble  lines  after  leading  us  to  the  grove. 
Somehow  we  understood  the  meaning  of  that  light 
and  waited  in  silence.  We  were  rewarded  when 
he  read  with  unforgettable  emotion,  "  I  Have  a 
Rendezvous  with  Death  " : 

"  I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade, 
When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 
And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air  — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

"  It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 
And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath  — 
It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 


"  A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  "  343 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

"  God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath. 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town. 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year. 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

"  No,  he  did  not  fail  it,"  softly  murmured  Ja- 
son. "  And  with  Death  at  that  rendezvous  at 
Belloy-en-Santere,  were  two  other  invisible  com- 
panions —  Fame  and  Immortality  !  " 

"  If  man  should  in  the  next  hundred  years  for- 
get —  which  is  hardly  conceivable  —  the  incident 
of  the  war  itself,  he  cannot  forget  the  attitude  of 
the  individual  toward  it,  and  who  experienced  it 
through  his  idealism  for  the  cause  in  which  he  be- 
lieved. It  will  hardly  be  the  epic  dimensions  of 
the  conflict  that  posterity  will  get  in  such  a 
case,  but  the  personal  reaction  of  the  war  upon 
the  individual.  That  is  what  we  get  in  Alan 
Seeger's  case.  For  the  other  we  must  turn  to 
the  poems  of  Robert  W.  Service.  '  In  the  Rhymes 
of  a  Red  Cross  Man,'  we  get  the  war.  Its  trag- 
edy, humor,  sacrifice,  sufl^ering,  heroism,  cruelty, 
appalling  bigness,   excitement   and  terror.     '  We 


SU      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

have  been  inquiring  for  the  poetry  of  the  war,' 
Witter  Bynner  wrote,  in  a  review  of  this  book. 

*  In  my  judgment,  here  it  is.'  And  that  judg- 
ment, I  can  echo,"  I  said. 

"  This  is  the  best  book  Mr.  Service  has  given 
us  since  his  first  volume, '  Songs  of  a  Sourdough,'  " 
said  Cassandra. 

"  In  that  book,  as  Mr.  Bynner  says,  the  kin- 
ship to  Kiphng  is  obvious,"  I  added,  "  and,  as  in 
this  latest  collection,  the  resemblance  is  not  as  an 
'  imitator     only     but     as     his     successor.'     The 

*  Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man  '  is  what  '  Kipling 
might  have  made  of  the  War,  had  his  genius  still 
been  young.'  In  Scottish  and  Cockney  dialect, 
the  best  of  the  poems  are  narratives  — *  immortal 
visions  of  an  epic  day.'  If  you  will  have  patience 
with  my  rendering  of  Scottish  dialect  —  for  I 
don't  at  all  pretend  to  do  it  well  —  I'll  read  '  The 
Haggis  of  Private  McPhee,'  which  is  a  remark- 
able blend  of  humor  and  tragedy."  Then  I 
read: 

Hae  ye  heard  whit  ma  auld  mither's  postit  tae  me  ? 
It  fair  maks  me  hamesick,'  says  Private  McPhee. 
'  And  whit  did  she  send  ye  ?  '  says  Private  MePhun, 
As  he  cockit  his  rifle  and  bleezed  at  a  Hun. 
'  A  haggis !     A  haggis ! '  says  Private  McPhee ; 
'  The  brawest  big  haggis  I  ever  did  see. 
And  think !  it's  the  morn  when  fond  memory  turns 
To  haggis  and  whuskey  —  the  Birthday  o'  Burns. 
We  maun  find  a  dram ;  then  we'll  ca'  in  the  rest 
O'  the  lads,  and  we'll  hae  a  Burns'  Nicht  wi'  the 
best.' 


"  A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  »  345 

'  Be  ready  at  sundoon,'  snapped  Sergeant  McCole ; 
*  I  want  you  two  men  for  the  List'nin'  Patrol.' 
Then  Private  McPhee  looked  at  Private  MePhun: 
'  I'm  thinkin',  ma  lad,  we're  confoundedly  done.' 
Then  Private  McPhun  looked  at  Private  McPhee: 
'  I'm  thinkin'  'ould  chap,  it's  a'  afF  wi'  oor  spree.' 
But  up  spoke  their  crony,  wee  Wullie  McNair: 
'  Jist  lea'  yer  braw  haggis  for  me  tae  prepare; 
And  as  for  the  dram,  if  I  search  the  camp  roun'. 
We  maun  hae  a  drappie  tae  jist  haud  it  doon. 
Sae  rin,  lads,  and  think,  though  the  nicht  it  be 

black 
O'  the  haggis  that's  waitin'  ye  when  ye  get  back.* 

My !  but  it  wis  waesome  on  Naebuddy's  Land, 
And  the  deid  they  were  rottin'  on  every  hand. 
And  the  rockets  like  corpse  candles  hauntit  the  sky, 
And  the  winds  o'  destruction  went  shudderin'  by. 
There  wis  skelpin'  o'  bullets  and  skirlin'  o'  shells, 
And   breengin'    o'    bombs    and    a    thoosand    death- 
knells  ; 
But  cooryin'  doon  in  a  Jack  Johnson  hole 
Little  fashed  the  twa  men  o'  the  List'nin'  Patrol. 
For  sweeter  than  honey  and  bricht  as  a  gem 
Wis  the  thocht  o'  the  haggis  that  waitit  for  them. 

Yet  alas !  in  oor  moments  o'  sunniest  cheer 
Calamity's  aften  maist  cruelly  near. 
And  while  the  twa  talked  o'  their  puddin'  divine 
The  Boches  below  them  were  howkin'  a  mine. 
And  while  the  twa  cracked  o'  the  feast  they  would 

hae, 
The  fuse  it  wis  burnin'  and  burnin'  away. 
Then  sudden  a  roar  like  the  thunder  o'  doom, 
A  hell-leap  o'  flame  .  .  .  then  the  wheesht  o'  the 

tomb. 


346      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

'"Haw,  Jock!     Are  ye  hurtit?'  says  Private  Mc- 

Phun. 
'  Ay,  Geordie,  they've  got  me;  I'm  fearin'  I'm  done. 
It's  ma  leg;  I'm  jist  thinkin'  it's  aff  at  the  knee; 
Ye'd  best  gang  and  leave  me/  said  Private  Mc- 

Phee. 
*  Oh  leave  ye  I  wunna/  says  Private  McPhun; 
'  And  leave  ye  I  canna,  for  though  I  micht  run. 
It's  no  faur  I  wud  gang,  it's  no  muckle  I'd  see: 
I'm  blindit,  and  that's  whit's  the  maitter  wi'  me.' 
Then  Private  McPhee  sadly  shakit  his  heid: 
'  If  we  bide  here  for  lang,  we'll  be  bidin'  for  deid. 
And  yet,  Geordie  lad,  I  could  gang  weel  content 
If  I'd  tasted  that  haggis  ma  auld  mither  sent.' 
'  That's  droll,'  says  McPhun;  '  ye've  jist  speakit  ma 

mind. 
Oh  I  ken  it's  a  terrible  thing  tae  be  blind ; 
And  yet  it's  no  that  that  embitters  ma  lot  — 
It's  missin'  that  braw  muckle  haggis  ye've  got.' 
For  a  while  they  were  silent;  then  up  once  again 
Spoke  Private  McPhee,  though  he  whussilt  wi'  pain: 
'  And  why  should  we  miss  it.^*     Between  you  and  me 
We've  legs  for  tae  run,  and  we've  eyes  for  tae  see. 
You  lend  me  your  shanks   and   I'll  lend  you  ma 

sicht. 
And  we'll  baith  hae  a  kyte-fu'  o'  haggis  the  nicht.' 

"  Oh,  the  sky  it  wis  dourlike  and  dreepin'  a  wee, 
When  Private  McPhee  guidit  Private  McPhun. 
Oh,  the  glaur  it  wis  fylin'  and  crieshin'  the  grun, 
When  Private  McPhee  guidit  Private  McPhun. 
*  Keep  clear  o'  them  corpses  —  they're  maybe  no 

deid! 
Haud  on !     There's  a  big  muckle  crater  aheid. 
Look  oot!     There's  a  sap;  we'll  be  haein'  a  coup. 


"  A  FEW  BRAVE  DROPS  "  347 

A  staur-shell!     For  Godsake!     Doun,  lad,  on  yer 

daup. 
Bear  afF  tae  yer  richt.  .  .  .  Aw,  yer  jist  daein'  fine; 
Before  the  nicht's  faenished  on  haggis  we'll  dine.' 

There  wis  death  and  destruction  on  every  hand; 
There  wis  havoc  and  horror  on  Naebuddy's  Land. 
And  the  shell  bickered  doun  wi'  a  crump  and  a  glare, 
And  the  hameless  wee  bullets  were  dingin'  the  air. 
Yet  on  they  went  staggerin',  a'cryin'  doun 
When  the  stutter  and  cluck  o'  a  maxim  crept  roun'. 
And  the  legs  o'  McPhun  they  were  sturdy  and  stoot. 
And  McPhee  on  his  back  kept  a  bonnie  look-oot. 

*  On,  on,  ma  brave  lad !     We're  no   faur   f rae  the 

goal; 
I  can  hear  the  braw  sweerin'  o'  Sergeant  McCole.' 

But  strength  has  its  leemit,  and  Private  McPhun, 
Wi'  a  sab  and  a  curse  fell  his  length  on  the  grun'. 
Then  Private  McPhee  shoutit  doon  in  his  ear: 

*  Jist  think  o'  the  haggis !     I  smell  it  from  here. 
It's  gushin'  wi'  juice,  it's  embaumin'  the  air; 

It's   steamin'    for   us,   and   we're  —  jist  —  aboot  — 

there.' 
Then   Private    McPhun   answers :     '  Dommit,   auld 

chap ! 
For  the  sake  of  that  haggis  I'll  gang  till  I  drap.' 
And  he  gets  on  his  feet  wi'  a  heave  and  a  strain. 
And  onward  he  staggers  in  passion  and  pain. 
And  the  flare  and  the  glare  and  the  fury  increase. 
Till  you'd  think  they'd  jist  taken  a'  hell  on  a  lease. 
And  on  they  go  reelin'  in  peetiful  plight. 
And  some  one  is  shoutin'  away  on  their  right; 
And  someone  is  runnin',  and  noo  they  can  hear 
A  sound  like  a  prayer  and  a  sound  like  a  cheer; 


34?8      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

And  swift  through  the  crash  and  the  flash  and  the 

din, 
The  lads  o'  the  Hielands  are  bringin'  them  in. 

"  '  They're  baith  sairly  woundit,  but  is  it  no  droll 
Ho'  they  rave  aboot  haggis  ?  '  says  Sergeant  Mc- 

Cole. 
When  hirplin  alang  comes  wee  Wullie  McNair, 
And  they  a'  wonnert  why  he  wis  greetin'  sae  sair. 
And  he  says:     '  I'd  jist  liftit  it  oot  o'  the  pot. 
And  there  it  lay  steamin'  and  savoury  hot. 
When  sudden  I  dooked  at  the  fleech  o'  a  shell. 
And  it  —  drapped  on  the  haggis  and  dinged  it  tae 
hell.' 

"  And  oh  but  the  lads  were  fair  taken  aback ; 
Then  sudden  the  order  wis  passed  tae  attack. 
And  up  from  the  trenches  like  lions  they  leapt, 
And  on  through  the  nicht  like  a  torrent  they  swept. 
On,  on,  wi'  their  bayonets  thirstin'  before! 
On,  on  tae  the  foe  wi'  a  rush  and  a  roar ! 
And  wild  to  the  welkin  their  battle-cry  rang, 
And  doon  on  the  Boches  like  tigers  they  sprang: 
And  there  wisna  a  man  but  had  death  in  his  ee, 
For,  he  thocht  o'  the  haggis  o'  Private  McPhee." 


XVI 

LUSTRAL  WATERS 

Our  next  discussion  was  indoors.  One  can 
never  tell  what  September  will  do.  Her  true  dis- 
position is  gentle;  but  once  in  a  while  she  has  a 
violent  fit  of  melancholy.  Then  like  a  naughty 
child  she  gives  full  vent  to  a  passion  of  wind  and 
rain.  AU  day  she  rages  over  field  and  through 
the  woods  with  a  temper  that  makes  one  wonder  if 
she  ever  had  a  gentle  nature;  but  at  night,  weary 
from  the  day's  unceasing  riot,  she  falls  to  quietude 
and  sleep  with  a  sob  on  the  roof  and  a  sigh  down 
the  chimney. 

Jason  and  I  went  up  to  The  Farm  in  a  veritable 
tempest  of  wind  and  rain.  They  lashed  us  cross- 
ing the  field  from  the  car  tracks.  The  ground 
was  sodden  with  grass  and  leaves,  treacherous 
to  keep  afoot  on.  Psyche  and  Cassandra  were 
awaiting  us  in  the  shelter  of  the  porch.  "  We 
didn't  expect  you  up,"  they  said  when  we  reached 
the  house. 

"  Did  you  think  a  little  angry  mood  like  this 
would  keep  us  away?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  was  a  sort  of  blind  adventure,"  Jason  ex- 
claimed, shaking  his  umbrella,  "  but  I  came  along, 

with  the  firm  conviction  that  dripping  trees  are 

349 


350      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

more  attractive  than  a  city  full  of  dripping  human 
beings.  Besides  I  like  to  see  the  rain  fall  in  the 
country.  And  when  there  is  a  wind  to  lash  it  the 
gods  make  an  inspiring  picture  of  their  might." 

"  Of  course,  we  can't  go  to  the  woods,"  said 
Psyche. 

"Who  wants  to;  or  said  they  were  going?" 
Jason  asked  with  playful  asperity. 

Cassandra  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him 
indoors.     Psyche  and  I  followed. 

We  found  Mrs.  Dan  sitting  by  a  blazing  log 
fire.  "  You  dear  lady,"  Jason  greeted  her. 
"  You  knew  just  what  I  wanted.  That's  the  best 
inspiration,"  he  pointed  to  the  crackling  logs, 
"  that  poetry  can  have  on  a  day  like  this." 

Psyche  burst  out  laughing.  "  You  silly, 
changeable,  overgrown  child,"  she  said;  "  just  now 
it  was  the  wind  and  rain  lashed  by  the  gods  across 
the  open  fields  that  you  liked  best,  and  now  this 
cosy  log  fire  wuth  all  the  wet  shut  out." 

"  Really,  madam,  you  should  chastise  your 
daughter  for  possessing  a  keen  memory;  it's  not 
a  sign  of  respect  to  mature  persons  like  —  my- 
self, you  know." 

"  Mumsie  doesn't  mind,  do  you,  dearie.? " 
Psyche  caressed  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Dan  got  up  to  leave  us  to  our  discussion. 
"  Please  stay,"  I  begged.  "  We're  going  to  talk 
about  Tagore.  He  is  a  favorite  of  yours,  and  I 
would  like  to  feel  that  we  were  talking  to  you 
about  him." 

And  Mrs.  Dan  remained. 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  351 

"  Did  you  see  the  attack  Paul  Elmer  More 
made  upon  Tagore  in  The  Nation?  "  asked  Ja- 
son. 

"Yes;  but  La j pat  Rai's  answer  quite  disposes 
of  his  pretensions.  Mr.  More  is  an  academic 
critic  who  has  made  a  study  of  Eastern  philos- 
ophy in  its  great  books,  and  so  for  him  nothing 
can  come  after  them.  Tagore  is  consequently  a 
'  saccharine  imitation.'  Mr.  Rai,  I  think,  in  the 
three  points  he  makes,  nullifies  the  attack,  which 
I  notice  was  followed,  in  the  usual  American  cus- 
tom, by  another  writer  in  The  Bellman.  He 
says  that,  first,  '  It  is  not  right  to  construct 
the  social  philosophy  of  a  poet  from  a  few  scat- 
tered verses  picked  up  from  two  of  his  collections, 
which  have  been  especially  translated  for  the  West- 
ern reader.'  Secondly,  '  A  poet  is  an  artist  first 
and  anything  afterwards.  He  does  not  aim  at  a 
systematic  exposition  of  the  science  of  life.  His 
poems  may  disclose  flashes  of  philosophic  thought, 
but  their  chief  claim  on  mankind  is  the  art  and  not 
the  logic  involved  therein.'  And  thirdly,  '  It  is 
hardly  fair  to  make  a  comparison  between  pieces  of 
devotional  poetry  and  epic  poetry  like  that  of  the 
"  Bhagwat  Gita."  The  prose  poems  of  "  Gitan- 
jali  "  and  "  Fruit-Gathering  "  are  the  ecstatic  ut- 
terances of  a  man  head  and  shoulders  in  love. 
The  theme  of  the  "  Gita  "  is  the  exhortation  of 
Krishna  to  Arjuna,  on  his  duty  as  a  warrior,  when 
"  suddenly  in  the  presence  of  two  armies  drawn 
up  for  battle,"  he  refuses  to  perform  it,  being 
"  filled  with  dismay  at  the  thought  of  the  carnage 


352      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

to  ensue."  The  path  of  love  is  not  always  the 
path  of  duty.  In  "  Gitanjali  "  a  devotee  is  speak- 
ing to  the  object  of  his  love,  his  God.  In  "  Bhag- 
wat  Gita  "  Krishna  is  speaking  to  a  disciple,  who, 
standing  on  a  field  of  battle,  has  thrown  away  his 
arms  in  despair.'  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  all  that,"  remarked  Jason ; 
"  but  I  do  know,  that  a  man  who  can  tell  such 
truths  as  Tagore  told  America  in  his  lecture  on 
'  Nationalism,'  during  his  recent  visit  to  this  coun- 
try, is  beyond  the  censure  of  Mr.  More." 

"  This  new  volume  of  Tagore's,  '  Fruit-Gather- 
ing,' seems  to  me  more  important  than  any  of  his 
books  since  the  first  which  he  translated  for  us," 
said  Psyche. 

"  Of  the  books  we  know,"  I  said,  "  '  Gitanj  ali ' 
is  the  central  and  authentic  message  of  Tagore's 
poetry.  Even  though  '  The  Crescent  Moon,'  '  The 
Gardener,'  and  such  plays  as  '  The  King  of  the 
Dark  Chamber,'  and  '  The  Post  Office,'  are  the 
familiar  possession  of  English  readers,  it  may  seem 
to  some  a  little  too  much  to  claim  for  the  '  Gitan- 
jali' volume.  But  'Gitanjali'  is  a  religion. 
Allegorical  and  symbolical,  these  poems  envisaged 
not  one,  but  many,  features  of  life.  They  were 
read  by  some  as  love  poems ;  and  so  they  are,  but 
as  Mr.  Rai  says,  the  love  of  a  devotee  for  his  God, 
Others  read  in  them  moral  and  ethical  reflec- 
tions on  human  experience ;  and  to  still  others  they 
were  but  deep  mj^stical  communings  of  a  vision- 
ary, who  had  attained  through  contemplation  and 
renunciation,    a    pure    understanding    of    divine 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  353 

causes  in  the  world,  and  of  their  corresponding 
significance  in  eternity." 

"  It  was  the  impression  these  poems  made  upon 
the  Western  mind,"  said  Psyche,  "  that  was  singu- 
larly interesting." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  Jason ;  "  the  material  and 
practical  character  of  Western  thought  was  made 
to  realize  through  '  Gitanjali,'  the  insecurity  of 
the  reality  it  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  as 
of  supreme  importance.  We  found  something  in 
the  message  of  this  Eastern  mystic  which  gave  us 
a  grasp  upon  the  actual  purposes  flowing  in  and 
through  the  soul  of  man.  The  chief  importance, 
I  think,  of  '  Gitanjali'  was,  that  it  showed  there 
was  one,  and  one  only,  essential  triumph  for  man 
in  this  worldly  struggle  of  existence  —  and  that 
was  in  the  knowledge  and  mastery  of  self.  And 
this  self  was  not  to  be  mistaken  for  the  individual ; 
it  was  in  its  supreme  desire,  the  race,  humanity. 
Around  this  central  fact,  so  illuminated  by  that 
calm  sense  of  perfection,  which  the  secrets  of  na- 
ture had  bestowed  upon  this  ecstatic  dreamer,  all 
the  other  concerns  and  particulars  of  existence 
were  woven  like  a  frame  around  a  picture  —  a 
decoration,  a  setting,  for  the  infinite." 

"  And  '  Fruit-Gathering  '  is,  like  '  Gitanjali,'  " 
I  joined  in,  "  a  book  of  religious  poems.  Its  sig- 
nificance, however,  is  not  quite  the  same.  There 
is  in  the  earlier  collection  just  a  hint  of  proba- 
tionary trials ;  faith  and  devotion  were  accepted 
facts,  but  the  soul  had  to  rise  to  knowledge  and  a 
serenity  of  will,  to  an  absolute  attainment  of  spir- 


354      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

ituality  over  the  forces  of  the  world.  It  reached 
that  triumph ;  arrived  at  a  familiar  contemplation, 
won  to  the  enactment  of  the  Divine  Will  and  Pur- 
pose. Now,  in  '  Fruit-Gathering,'  the  servant 
renders  his  account.  And  the  message  is  valuable 
for  the  quality  of  the  substance  which  is  rendered. 
'  Now  at  the  end  of  youth  my  life  is  like  a  fruit, 
having  nothing  to  spare,  and  waiting  to  offer  her- 
self completely  with  her  full  burden  of  sweetness,' 
sings  the  poet.  We  note  in  the  religious  philoso- 
phy of  Tagore,  that  wisdom  is  the  prime  virtue. 
The  wisdom,  not  of  the  material  West,  but  of  the 
mystical  East.  It  consists  in  the  strength  to  sup- 
press those  corruptible  desires  which  give  to  the 
flesh  a  command  over  the  spirit.  It  is  true  that 
wisdom  only  becomes  possible  when  the  appetite 
of  desire  has  its  insatiable  yearnings  in  the  spirit. 
To  feed  it  continually,  with  the  knowledge  of 
divine  purposes,  and  so  to  grow  upon  its  sus- 
tenance, into  the  nature  of  that  inherited  Godhead, 
which  is  man's  original  endowment.  This  Tagore 
acknowledges  in  Number  XIV  of  '  Fruit-Gather- 
ing': 

"  My  portion  of  the  best  in  this  world  will  come 
from  your  hands :  such  was  your  promise. 

"  Therefore  your  light  glistens  in  my  tears. 

"  I  fear  to  be  led  by  others  lest  I  miss  you  waiting 
in  some  road  corner  to  be  my  guide. 

"  I  walk  my  own  wilful  way  till  my  very  folly 
tempts  you  to  my  door. 

"  For  I  have  your  promise  that  my  portion  of  the 
best  in  this  world  will  come  from  your  hands. 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  355 

And  because  of  this  original  promise,  he  will  make 
the  gift  not  less  worthy  than  to  claim  it  with  an 
account  which  offers  a  '  full  burden  of  sweetness.'  " 
"  But  the  '  fruit-gathering '  is  not  accom- 
plished," said  Cassandra,  "  without  a  reminiscence 
of  those  probationary  efforts  which  give  a  tinge 
of  sadness  to  '  Gitanjali.'  This  collection  shows 
the  responsibility  which  weighs  upon  one  who  at- 
tempts to  escape  from  those  spiritual  obligations 
that  fit  one  to  render  an  account.  In  number 
XXXII  is  expressed  what  reckless  chance  may 
beget : 

"  My  king  was  unknown  to  me,  therefore  when  he 
claimed  his  tribute  I  was  bold  to  think  I  would  hide 
myself  leaving  my  debts  unpaid. 

"  I  fled  and  fled  behind  my  day's  work  and  my 
night's  dreams. 

"  But  his  claims  followed  me  at  every  breath  I 
drew. 

"  Thus  I  came  to  know  that  I  am  known  to  him 
and  no  place  left  which  is  mine. 

"  Now  I  wish  to  lay  my  all  before  his  feet,  and  gain 
the  right  to  my  place  in  his  kingdom." 

"  What  has  been  said  makes  it  clear,"  I  sug- 
gested, "  that  in  this  latest  collection  of  Tagore's 
poems,  there  is  an  expression  of  complete  self- 
satisfaction  in  man's  spiritual  exaltation  and  tri- 
umph over  the  world.  This  triumph  differs  from 
our  Western  conception  of  religious  experience  and 
fulfilment.  It  does  so  in  the  first  place,  because 
our  faith  depends  so  much  upon  revelation.  The 
miracles  we  accept  are  those  miracles  which  have 


356      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

been  witnessed.  Our  mysteries  are  impelled  by 
conviction,  and  never  by  sensibility  of  substance. 
'  Yours  is  the  heaven,'  sings  Tagore,  '  that  lies  in 
the  common  dust,  and  you  are  there  for  me,  you 
are  there  for  all.'  And  this  idea,  beautifully 
embodied,  is  given  delicate  affirmation  in  Number 
LV: 

"  Tulsidas,  the  poet,  was  wandering,  deep  m 
thought,  by  the  Ganges,  in  that  lonely  spot  where  they 
burn  their  dead. 

"  He  found  a  woman  sitting  at  the  feet  of  the  corpse 
of  her  dead  husband,  gaily  dressed  as  for  a  wedding. 

"  She  rose  as  she  saw  him,  bowed  to  him,  and  said, 
'  Permit  me.  Master,  with  your  blessing,  to  follow 
my  husband  to  heaven.' 

"  '  Why  such  hurry,  my  daughter  ?  '  asked  Tulsidas. 
*  Is  not  this  earth  also  His  who  made  heaven.'' ' 

"  '  For  heaven  I  do  not  long,'  said  the  woman.  '  I 
want  my  husband.' 

"  Tulsidas  smiled  and  said  to  her,  *  Go  back  to  your 
home,  my  child.  Before  the  month  is  over  you  will 
find  your  husband.' 

"  The  woman  went  back  with  glad  hope.  Tulsidas 
came  to  her  every  day  and  gave  her  high  thoughts 
to  think,  till  her  heart  was  filled  to  the  brim  with 
divine  love. 

"  When  the  month  was  scarcely  over,  her  neigh- 
bors came  to  her,  asking,  '  Woman,  have  you  found 
your  husband  ?  ' 

"  The  widow  smiled  and  said,  '  I  have.' 

"  Eagerly  they  asked,  '  Where  is  he?  ' 

"  '  In  my  heart  is  my  lord,  one  with  me,'  said  the 
woman. 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  357 

"  The  successive  books  which  followed  '  Gitan- 
jali,'"  I  continued,  "brought  to  us,  beautiful  as 
they  were,  a  feeling  that  all  together  they  could 
add  nothing  to  the  wonderful  message  contained  in 
the  mystical  visions  of  those  song-offerings ;  but 
once  again,  I  believe,  in  '  Fruit-Gathering '  the 
poet  shows  us  a  shining  pathway  up  which  we  can 
confidently  travel  to  those  regions  of  wisdom  and 
experience,  which  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
we  strive  to  reach." 

"  He  bathes  the  spirit  in  the  lustral  waters  of 
eternity,"  remarked  Psyche. 

"  And  the  only  American  poet  I  have  met  with 
this  year  doing  the  same,  is  Olive  Tilford  Dargan," 
Jason  added. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  We  can  have  noth- 
ing but  admiration  for  the  achievement  of  this 
wonderful  woman  in  '  The  Cycle's  Rim.'  And  yet, 
how  many  have  discerned  the  quality  of  that  poem? 
Professor  George  Herbert  Palmer,  with  his  sound 
and  respected  critical  judgment,  has  given  his  war- 
rant to  this  rare  and  beautiful  utterance,  and  yet 
only  a  few  have  heeded.  Still  that  doesn't  mat- 
ter. Time  will  discover  it,  as  it  has  discovered 
many  another  masterpiece.  .  .  .  But  here  is  a 
woman  in  our  day  taking  the  Shakespearean  son- 
net and  making  it  a  wonderful  instrument  for 
subtle  thought  and  flaming  imagination.  The 
Shakespearean  sonnet  has  been  voyaging  for  three 
hundred  years  over  the  oceans  of  poetic  minds  — 
a   craft   more   subtle   than   stately  —  shaped    for 


358      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

merchandise  of  costly  price  rather  than  for  car- 
goes of  necessary  commodities,  yet  on  very  few  oc- 
casions, sailing  full-rigged  and  with  a  full  tonnage 
of  wares.  The  original  model  cleared  from  the 
deepest  harbor  of  human  imagination ;  touched  at 
all  the  continents  of  human  experience,  unloading 
its  inexhaustible  and  eternal  merchandise,  the 
costly  wares  of  passion:  the  cloth  o'  gold  of  love; 
jewels  of  bitterness  and  pain;  princely  silks  of 
friendship ;  rare  and  magical  perfumes  of  the  mind 
rising  in  triumph  over  emotional  disaster.  The 
model  was  copied  in  the  days  when  the  original 
flourished  on  the  morning  seas  of  English  poetry; 
but  none  carried  such  merchandise  as  that  ship 
which  sailed  from  the  harbor  of  Shakespeare's 
heart.  Since,  there  have  been  brave  attempts,  to 
gather  as  costly  a  merchandise,  for  later  copies 
of  the  famous  model.  The  bounteous  resources  of 
life  have  left  no  lack  of  supplies ;  but  few  minds 
and  hearts  have  been  so  rich  in  passion  and  imag- 
ination, as  to  purchase  such  a  cargo  as  the  story 
of  Shakespeare's  love. 

"  O  what  a  lover  must  thou  be,  old  Time, 
With  so  much  beauty  to  thy  bosom  folded ! 
The  queens  that  reigned  o'er  monarchies  of  rhyme, 
And  by  new  worship  ever  newly  moulded; 
With  all  the  Helens  of  the  lyreless  Troys, 
Sisters  of  Laura,  Beatrice,  Eloise, 
Who  shone  on  worshippers  denied  the  voice 
To  set  their  name  'mong  song's  divinities ! 
And  happy  thou,  my  Dear,  who  now  dost  share 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  359 

The  secrets  of  Time's  eyes.     O,  smile  thou  must, 
As  Pity  smileth,  seeing  mortals  here 
Laying  another  song  on  Helen's  dust. 
But  of  thy  joy  I  dream  unjealously, 
Knowing  in  all  thy  loves  thou  lovest  me. 

"  This  sonnet  from  Mrs.  Dargan's  book,"  I 
continued,  "  indicates  an  approach,  in  the  quality 
of  substance,  and  instinctive  surety  of  form,  to  the 
Shakespearean  masterpiece,  that,  between  the 
Elizabethan  sequence  and  our  time,  it  must  be 
ranked  as  one  of  the  very  few  supreme  achieve- 
ments, thrown  off  like  planets,  from  that  great 
sun.  '  The  Cycle's  Rim  '  is  a  sequence  holding 
the  outspoken  passion  of  love  and  memory,  for 
'  One  Drowned  at  Sea.'  This  love  is  a  great  es- 
sence, an  essence  which  takes  on  many  elements, 
giving  to  them  various  subtleties  of  associated 
memories  with  the  world,  and  with  those  com- 
plications of  mystery,  that  weave  the  passions  of 
the  soul,  and  the  philosophic  insight  of  the  mind, 
into  the  web  of  life.  You  get  a  clarified  and  lucid 
surface,  but  a  brooding  and  mysterious  undercur- 
rent ;  a  prodigal  wealth  of  impulses,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  mind  and  heart.  In  the  opening  sonnet, 
how  simply  the  poet  presents  her  task;  but  note 
what  goes  into  that  presentation  —  materials  of 
carefully  chosen  imagery,  sound  colored  with  the 
plumage  of  thought,  and  all  kept  in  that  appro- 
priate key  of  controllable  pain  which  the  heart 
that  knows  wisdom,  in  the  shape  of  beauty,  alone 
can  express: 


360      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"Deep   lies   thy   body,  jewel   of   the   sea. 
Locked    down    with    wave    on    wave.     Pearl-drift 

among 
The  coral  towers,  and  yet  not  thee,  not  thee! 
So  lightly  didst  thou  mount,  blue  rung  o'er  rung. 
The  lustred  ladder  rippling  from  that  land 
Of  strangely  boughed  and  wooing  wildernesses. 
Province  of  dream  unwaning,  dream  yet  banned 
From  sleepers  in  the  sun ;  but  thou,  as  presses 
The  lark  that  feels  his  song,  sped  to  thy  sky. 

0  unrepressed!     If  thou  wouldst  choose  be  gone. 
What  sea-charm  then  could  stay  thee,  bid  thee  lie 
Too  deep  for  cock-crow  earth  or  heaven's  dawn.? 
Yet  must  I  chant  these  broken,  mortal  staves. 
And  lay  my  leaf  of  laurel  on  the  waves." 

1  stopped  after  that  quotation,  conscious  that 
my  enthusiasm  had  silenced  any  opinion  my  com- 
panions had  wished  to  make, 

"  Oh,  go  on,"  cried  Psyche,  "  I  subscribe  to  all 
you  say  about  Mrs.  Dargan's  book." 

"Yes;  do,"  echoed  Cassandra. 

"  With  my  leave,"  added  Jason,  gazing  into  the 
fire  with  dreamy  eyes.  "  A  genius  isn't  to  be  dis- 
puted, only  interpreted." 

"  Yes ;  we  can  afford  to  throw  away  the  dross," 
I  said,  with  Jason's  remark  in  mind.  "  If  you 
insist,  then,"  I  added,  "  let  me  emphasize  that  this 
'  leaf  of  laurel '  has  many  wonders.  Out  of  the 
dark  earth  comes  the  vital  power  which  makes  it 
turn  its  face  toward  the  sun  —  knowing  the  ful- 
filment of  these  words  in  the  twenty-third  son- 
net: 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  361 

"  O  God,  what  tumult  buried  is,  unguessed 
As  strife  that  rends  a  smiling-windowed  house. 
Within  that  hidden  room,  a  woman's  breast. 
When  agony  on  guard  must  make  fair  bows 
To  casual  fortune ! 

But  this  leaf,  too,  has  had  its  inexplicable  wonders 
of  the  clear,  warm  sunlight,  and  from  it  flow  into 
many  a  line  those  untouchable  deeps  of  joys,  those 
elusive  flashes  of  beauty  which  cannot  die : 

"  Here  is  no  beauty  I  may  look  upon 
And  think  not  of  thee;  for  all  ways  we  went. 
And  every  way  did  bud  or  jewel  own 
That  for  a  moment  made  thine  eyes  content 
And  spill  sweet  sun  to  mine. 

Recollection  creeps  in,  with  its  glowing  light  again 
and  again: 

"  Then  out  of  the  night 
Your  laughter  covered  me  like  ointment  spilled; 
Around  me  pealed  your  words,  a  torrent  light, 
And  my  sick  soul  rose  up,  virgin  and  healed. 
On  radiance  walking.     O,  as  Heaven  had  broke, 
And  dropped  her  little  stars,  you  golden  spoke ! 

If  memory  rises  upon  these  peaks,  other  forces 
gather  to  set  the  soul  upon  the  slopes,  where  it 
passes  judgment  upon  its  moods.  Here  in  this 
sonnet  is  a  deep  utterance,  growing  to  a  magnifi- 
cent vision  in  the  climax: 

"  Sordid  my  life,  they  say,  and  they  say  true. 
If  the  world's  favor  be  life's  only  sun. 
Here  in  the  firelight  where  I  bake  and  brew 


362      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

None  save  immortals  look  me  smiling  on. 
Ah,  only  Heaven's  vagrants !     If  I  durst 
Take  mine  own  chair  an  angel  must  get  up. 
And,  would  I  drink,  ere  I  may  ease  my  thirst 
Celestial  lips  make  bright  my  cabin  cup. 
But  no  silk  robes  trail  hither  for  my  sake. 
And  for  my  dear,  he  is  a  lord  so  poor 
His  dreams  are  bare  of  gold.     He  can  but  take 
A  thread  from  Fate,  and,  leaving  not  his  door. 
If  he  there  will,  beneath  a  threshold  vine. 
Spin  white  eternity  in  one  brief  line. 

"  I  quote  this  sonnet,"  I  went  on,  "  for  another 
reason  which  will  be  apparent  to  the  reader  of  this 
sequence.  A  memorial  poem,  with  its  definite 
tribute  to  one  with  whom  life  made  a  close  union, 
in  which  spirit  and  circumstance  colored  and  re- 
flected aspects  of  the  world,  and  the  deeper  sensi- 
bilities of  character,  these  sonnets  also  by  their 
sheer  intellectual  penetration,  build  up  and  around 
their  central  motive,  a  fabric  of  spiritual  abstrac- 
tions, of  significant  ideas.  Destinies  and  fates, 
the  '  casual  fortunes,'  of  human  experience,  all 
those  parts  of  obscure  influences  which  alter  per- 
ceptibly the  traditions  and  circumstances  of  life, 
are  brought  into  illusory  relations  with  the  pur- 
poses of  this  memorial  chant.  The  conception  of 
each  individual  sonnet  is  on  an  exalted  plane  of 
feeling;  the  singer  is  not  satisfied  merely  to  bring 
loss  and  grief  into  expression,  as  a  too  narrowly 
personal  off'ering,  but  must  needs  give  it  the  sanc- 
tity of  nature's  bewildered  attitude  of  supplica- 
tion, before  the  Unknown.     This  twelfth  sonnet 


LUSTRAL  WATERS  363 

illustrates  the  scale  on  which  the  poet's  mind  soars : 

"  Ah  well,  we  know  the  universe  we  know 
A  sandgrain  is  unto  the  one  that  has 
No  boundary  in  thought,  and  all  the  show 
That  science  makes  is  as  a  juggler's  pass 
Outside  the  circus  door  of  wonders.     Spheres 
Fly  animate  with  aim,  while  man  doth  make 
His  genial  plaudits  that  awake  no  ears 
Beyond  his  own;  at  his  breath's  end  they  break. 
Truth  is  the  planet's  eye,  but  yet  is  faith 
Her  mighty  telescope,  uncovering  all 
The  formless  outworlds,  till  the  Whisperer  saith 
'There  lie  my  bower-lands;  let  go  this  ball.' 
Yet  in  one  heart  we  wall  His  globed  demesne, 
Nor  need  of  windows  when  we've  all  within. 

"  One  needs  no  further  proof  than  these  selec- 
tions I  have  read,"  I  said  in  conclusion,  "  that 
here  is  an  authentic  achievement.  No  mood  could 
ring  truer  than  this  mood  of  deep-felt  grief.  Its 
expression  could  not  be  more  genuinely  wrought 
with  the  fine  subtlety  of  speech  and  image.  In 
everything  these  sonnets  are  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury ;  they  are  the  products  of  a  modern  tempera- 
ment, and  yet  possess  every  old  distinction  of 
poetic  beauty.  The  wistfulness  of  clinging  to  lost 
possessions  is  a  wistfulness  that  has  turned  in 
these  sonnets  from  uncertainty  to  strength,  to  an 
element  that  has  turned  from  a  lure  to  a  force, — 
bright,  dignified,  and  graceful.  If  the  memorial 
is  one  of  amazing  distinction,  the  art  in  which  it  is 
clothed  is  of  that  beauty  which  comes  nigh  to 
perfection." 


XVII 
PATRINS 

It  was  our  last  September  meeting,  and  once 
again  Nature  gave  us  a  fine  day.  The  storm  of 
the  previous  week  had  accomplished  that  trans- 
formation which  a  severe  storm  in  September  al- 
ways does;  summer  and  all  its  signs  were  gone; 
that  mellow  substance  in  the  sunlight  was  taking 
on  a  greyish  hue,  stiffened  by  the  sharper  winds, 
having  a  melancholy  undertone ;  the  trees  were  not 
all  denuded,  but  the  leaves  which  still  hung  pa- 
thetically to  the  boughs  were  sere,  and  it  took  but 
a  touch  to  make  them  crumble;  the  long  grass  in 
the  fields  was  breaking  on  sapless  blades,  and  in 
every  direction  throughout  the  countryside  the 
farms  lay  motionless  of  human  labor  among  grow- 
ing things.  Yet  the  day  was  fine  in  spite  of  the 
change  so  noticeable  in  the  aspect  of  nature,  and 
we  walked  on  to  our  grove  with  that  spacious  feel- 
ing which  out  of  doors  must  always  give  to  one 
who  appreciates  the  bounteous  openness  of  the 
sky  and  the  spreading  floor  of  the  earth  be- 
neath it. 

We  were  a  little  impressed  at  the  appearance  of 

the  grove.     Two  weeks  had  passed  since  we  were 

last  there,  and  its  spirit  as  well  as  its  appearance 

had  changed.     I  think  it  was  the  open  branches 

364 


PATRINS  365 

above  that  made  the  most  difference;  it  made  the 
place  seem  less  intimate.  The  dry,  warm,  fra- 
grant atmosphere  of  sunnier  days  was  gone,  and 
we  felt  the  faint  penetration  of  dampness  which 
seemed  unsympathetic  to  our  presence.  We  had 
brought  extra  garments  with  us  to  spread  on  the 
ground,  and  so  were  soon  comfortably  seated  for 
our  talk. 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered,"  began  Jason, 
"  if  the  patrins  of  the  gypsies  were  not  a  good 
symbol  of  man's  experience  in  following  the  trail 
which  leads  him  to  his  spiritual  goal  in  life.  I 
don't  know  why  I  get  the  notion  into  my  head,  but 
poets  like  John  G.  Neihardt,  Donald  Evans,  and 
William  H.  Davies  give  me  the  impression  that 
they  have  been  following  the  guide  of  spiritual 
patrins." 

"  Davies,  who  was  a  tramp  when  Bernard  Shaw 
discovered  him,"  said  Psyche,  "  does  give  one  the 
sense  of  spiritual  wanderlust.  His  simplicity, 
sensitiveness,  fresh  and  vivid  instincts,  have  all  the 
quality  of  open-air  nourishment  and  growth. 
People  who  live  in  the  open  have  an  infectious  emo- 
tionalism —  people,  I  should  say,  with  irregular 
ways  of  life,  like  tramps  and  gypsies,  and  who  are 
irresponsible  in  all  relationships  except  to  weather 
and  shelter.  For  instance,  what  a  confession  we 
get  of  the  irresponsibility  of  such  a  life  from 
Davies'  poem,  '  In  the  Country  ' : 

"  This  life  is  sweetest ;  in  this  wood 
I  hear  no  children  cry  for  food ; 


366      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

I  see  no  woman,  white  with  care; 
No  man,  with  muscles  wasting  here. 

"  No  doubt  it  is  a  selfish  thing 
To  fly  from  human  suffering; 
No  doubt  he  is  a  selfish  man, 
Who  shuns  poor  creatures  sad  and  wan. 

"  But  'tis  a  wretched  life  to  face 
Hunger  in  almost  every  place; 
Cursed  with  a  hand  that's  empty,  when 
The  heart  is  full  to  help  all  men. 

"  Can  I  admire  the  statue  great. 
When  living  men  starve  at  its  feet! 
Can  I  admire  the  park's  green  tree, 
A  roof  for  homeless  misery ! 

"  When  I  can  see  few  men  in  need, 
I  then  have  power  to  help  by  deed. 
Nor  lose  my  cheerfulness  in  pity  — 
Which  I  must  do  in  every  city. 

"  For  when  I  am  in  those  great  places, 
I  see  ten  thousand  suffering  faces; 
Before  me  stares  a  wolfish  eye. 
Behind  me  creeps  a  groan  or  sigh." 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  Psyche,"  I  said.  "  And 
it  takes  a  poet  with  that  perception  to  see  man 
against  the  background  of  eternity.  Davies  has 
done  it  in  a  poem  called  '  Man,'  "  which  I  read: 

"  I  saw  Time  running  by  — 
Stop,  Thief,  was  all  the  cry. 
I  heard  a  voice  say,  Peace ! 


PATRINS  367 

Let  this  vain  clamour  cease. 

Can  ye  bring  lightning  back 

That  leaves  upon  its  track 

Men,  horses,  oak  trees  dead  ? 

Canst  bring  back  Time?  it  said. 

There's  nothing  in  Man's  mind 

Can  catch  Time  up  behind; 

In  front  of  that  fast  Thief 

There's  no  one  —  end  this  grief. 

Tut,  what  is  Man?     How  frail! 

A  grain,  a  little  nail, 

The  wind,  a  change  of  cloth  — 

A  fly  can  give  him  death. 

Some  fishes  in  the  sea 

Are  born  to  outlive  thee, 

And  owls,  and  toads,  and  trees  — 

And  is  Man  more  than  these? 

I  see  Man's  face  in  all 

Things,  be  they  great  or  small ; 

I  see  the  face  of  him 

In  things  that  fly  or  swim; 

One  fate  for  all,  I  see  — 

Whatever  that  may  be. 

Imagination  fits 

Life  to  a  day ;  though  its 

Length  were  a  thousand  years, 

'Twould  not  decrease  our  fears ; 

What  strikes  men  cold   and  dumb 

Is  that  Death's  time  must  come." 

"  The  finest  quality,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Jason, 
"  of  these  open-air  folk  is  the  angelic  tenderness 
that  exists  beneath  their  rough  exterior.  Davies' 
*  Catharine '  is  as  tender  as  anything  in  Shake- 
speare or  Tennyson."     And  he  read: 


368      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  We  children  every  morn  would  wait 
For  Catharine,  at  the  garden  gate; 
Behind  school-time,  her  surmy  hair 
Would  melt  the  master's  frown  of  care, 
What  time  his  hand  but  threatened  pain. 
Shaking  aloft  his  awful  cane; 
So  here  one  summer's  morn  we  wait 
For  Catharine  at  the  garden  gate. 
To  Dave  I  say  — *  There's  sure  to  be 
Some  coral  isle  unknown  at  sea. 
And  —  if  I  see  it  first  — 'tis  mine ! 
But  I'll  give  it  to  Catharine.' 
'  When  she  grows  up,'  says  Dave  to  me, 
'  Some  ruler  in  a  far  countree. 
Where  every  voice  but  his  is  dumb. 
Owner  of  pearls,  and  gold,  and  gum. 
Will  build  for  her  a  shining  throne. 
Higher  than  his,  and  near  his  own; 
And  he,  who  would  not  list  before, 
Will  listen  to  Catharine,  and  adore 
Her  face  and  form;  and,'  Dave  went  on  — 
When  came  a  man  there  pale  and  wan. 
Whose  face  was  dark  and  wet  though  kind. 
He,  coming  there,  seemed  like  a  wind 
Whose  breath  is  rain,  yet  will  not  stop 
To  give  the  parched  flowers  a  drop: 
'  Go,  children,  to  your  school,'  he  said 
'  And  tell  the  master  Catharine's  dead.'  " 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Psyche,  catching  her  breath. 
"  How  do  they  get  it  from  the  wind  and  the 
weather,  the  long  dusty  roads,  and  the  shadowy 
places  behind  the  hedgerows  !  " 

"  Davies  is  a  genius ;  there's  no  doubt  of  that," 
I   said.     "  And   true    Elizabethan,   too.     If   you 


PATRINS  369 

should  ever  doubt  it,  listen   to  this,  *  The  Two 
Children  ' : 

"  '  Ah,  little  boy !  I  see 

You  have  a  wooden  spade. 
Into  this  sand  you  dig 

So  deep  —  for  what  ?  '  I  said. 
'  There's  more  rich  gold,'  said  he, 

'  Down  under  where  I  stand, 
Than  twenty  elephants 

Could  move  across  the  land.* 

Ah,  little  girl  with  wool !  — 

What  are  you  making  now?  ' 
'  Some  stockings  for  a  bird, 

To  keep  his  legs  from  snow.' 
And  there  those  children  are. 

So  happy,  small,  and  proud: 
The  boy  that  digs  his  grave, 

The  girl  that  knits  her  shroud. 


(( 


Well,  poetry  becomes  at  times  just  sheer  — 
poetry,  like  wind  or  sunlight ;  the  lyrics  of  the 
Elizabethan  song-books,  of  Herrick,  of  Campion, 
blossoming  dreams  of  the  spirit.  Davies  is  of 
that  company  —  simple,  direct,  poignant,"  I  said. 
"  And  Mr.  Neihardt  in  advancing  from  '  A 
Bundle  of  Myrrh  '  through  '  The  Stranger  at  the 
Gate,'  to  'The  Poet's  Town,'  has  also  followed 
the  trail  of  the  spiritual  patrins,"  Cassandra  be- 
lieved. "  This  volume,  '  The  Quest,'  gathering  in 
a  single  collection  all  the  important  work  before 
that  splendid  narrative,  '  The  Song  of  Hugh 
Glass,'  shows  what  an  advance  Mr.  Neihardt  has 


370      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

made  from  the  vague  spiritual  impulse  in  the  sensu- 
ous themes  of  '  A  Bundle  of  Myrrh.'  The  blaze 
of  passion  in  that  earlier  volume  consumed  what- 
ever spiritual  substance  the  poet  evoked.  The 
best  thing  there  is,  '  Let  Down  Your  Hair,'  I  will 
read  it  and  you  can  judge  for  yourself  what  emo- 
tions it  is  mostly  likely  to  stir  — " 

"  No  woman  can  read  that  poem  properly,"  in- 
terrupted Jason.  "  It  wasn't  meant  for  her  to 
read."  And  without  further  parley  he  began  him- 
self to  read: 

"  Unbind  your  hair^  and  let  its  masses  be 
Soft  midnight  on  the  weary  eyes  of  me. 
I  faint  before  the  dazzle  of  your  breast ; 
Make  shadow  with  your  hair  that  I  may  rest, 
And  I  will  cool  my  fevered  temples  there : 
Let  down  your  hair. 

"  Ah  —  so  !     It  falls  like  night  upon  a  day 
Too  bright  for  peace.     It  is  a  cruel  way 
That  leads  to  this,  alas,  which  is  but  pain. 
I  am  athirst  —  your  tresses  fall  like  rain ; 
Ah,  wrap  me  close  and  bind  me  captive  there 
Amid  your  hair! 

"  How  much  my  soul  has  given  that  my  flesh 
Might  lie  a  thrall  in  this  enchanted  mesh ! 
Something  I  grope  for  that  I  used  to  hold; 
Something  it  was  bought  dearly  —  cheaply  sold ; 
Something  divine  was  strangled  unaware 
Here  in  your  hair ! 

"  But  no  —  I  will  not  grieve  —  will  not  complain. 
Let  your  hair  fall  upon  me  like  night  rain 


PATRINS  371 

And  shut  me  from  myself,  and  make  me  blind ! 
How  can  I  deem  this  bondage  aught  but  kind  ? 
And  yet  —  I  cannot  sleep  for  some  dumb  care 
Here  in  your  hair." 

"  I  won't  say  that  spirituality  cannot  be  gotten 
out  of  such  a  subject,"  I  said,  "  but  it  isn't  in  this 
particular  poem.  Nor  will  I  deny  its  beauty;  it 
has  that  of  the  purely  physical  kind.  I  wonder, 
after  all,  if  it  isn't  because  it  really  does  lack 
passion.'*  Not  many  poets  can  combine  the  two, 
passion  and  spirituality,  as  Ernest  Dowson  did 
in  *  Cynara.'  " 

"  But  you  don't  deny  spiritual  force  and  beauty 
in  Mr.  Neihardt's  poems,  do  you?  "  asked  Psyche. 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  answered  her.  "  Here  is  a 
poem  called  '  The  Story,'  from  '  The  Stranger  at 
the  Gate,'  exquisitely  shimmering  with  it."  And 
I  read : 

"  Yearly  thrilled  the  plum  tree 
With  the  mother-mood; 
Every  June  the  rose  stock 
Bore  her  wonder-child; 
Every  year  the  wheatlands 
Reared  a  golden  brood : 
World  of  praying  Rachels, 
Heard  and  reconciled. 

"  '  Poet,'  said  the  plum  tree's 
Singing  white  and  green, 
'  Wheat  avails  your  mooning, 
Can  you  fashion  plums  ?  ' 
*  Dreamer,'  crooned  the  wheatland's 


S72      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Rippling  vocal  sheen, 
'  See  my  golden  children 
Marching  as  with  drums ! ' 

"  *  By  a  god  begotten/ 
Hymned  the  sunning  vine, 
'  In  my  lyric  children 
Purple  music  flows  ! ' 
'  Singer,'  breathed  the  rose  bush, 
'  Are  they  not  divine  ? 
Have  you  any  daughters 
Mighty  as  a  rose  ?  ' 

"  Happy,  happy  mothers! 
Cruel,  cruel  words! 
Mine  are  ghostly  children. 
Haunting  all  the  ways; 
Latent  in  the  plum  bloom. 
Calling  through  the  birds. 
Romping  with  the  wheat  brood 
In  their  shadow  plays! 

"  Gotten  out  of  star-glint. 
Mothered  of  the  Moon; 
Nurtured  with  the  rose  scent. 
Wild,  elusive  throng! 
Something  of  the  vine's  dream 
Crept  into  a  tune; 
Something  of  the  wheat-drone 
Echoed  in  a  song. 

"  Once  again  the  white  fires 
Smoked  among  the  plums ; 
Once  again  the  world- joy 
Burst  the  crimson  bud; 


PATRINS  S73 

Golden  bannered  wheat  broods 
Marched  to  fairy  drums ; 
Once  again  the  vineyard 
Felt  the  Bacchic  blood. 

"  *  Lo,  he  comes  —  the  dreamer  — ' 
Crooned  the  whitened  boughs, 
'  Quick  with  vernal  love-fires  — 
Oh,  at  last  he  knows ! 
See  the  bursting  plum  bloom 
There  above  his  brows  !  ' 
'  Boaster !  '  breathed  the  rose  bush, 
*  'Tis  a  budding  rose ! ' 

"  Droned  the  glinting  acres, 
'  In  his  soul,  mayhap, 
Something  like  a  wheat-dream 
Quickens  into  shape ! ' 
Sang  the  sunning  vineyard, 
'  Lo,  the  lyric  sap 
Sets  his  heart  a-throbbing 
Like  a  purple  grape ! ' 

**  Mother  of  the  wheatlands, 
Mother  of  the  plums, 
Mother  of  the  vineyard  — 
All  that  loves  and  grows  — 
Such  a  living  glory 
To  the  dreamer  comes. 
Mystic  as  a  wheat-song. 
Mighty  as  a  rose! 

"  Star-glint,  moon-glow. 
Gathered  in  a  mesh! 
Spring-hope,  white  fire 


374      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

By  a  hiss  beguiled! 
Something  of  the  world- joy 
Dreaming  into  flesh! 
Bird-song,  vine-thrill 
Quickened  to  a  child!  " 


XVIII 
IN  GLORIA  MUNDI 

As  the  end  of  our  meetings  in  the  woods  grew 
near  we  were  more  reluctant  than  ever  to  give  them 
up.  Psyche  and  Cassandra,  with  their  mother, 
were  staying  on  at  The  Farm  until  after  Christ- 
mas, and  they  were  not  decided  whether  the  winter 
was  to  be  spent  in  Boston  or  Manchester.  More 
and  more  I  could  ill  spare  the  time  which  took  me 
away  from  town ;  and  Jason  kept  a  discreet  cloak 
about  the  future.  Yet,  as  I  said,  we  all  felt  re- 
luctant in  leaving  the  place  which  had  so  many 
pleasant  memories  of  companionship  and  poetic 
discussion.  The  consciousness  of  the  change  so 
soon  to  take  place  made  us  fall  into  our  talk  with 
a  directness  that  was  almost  formal. 

"  There  is  an  affinity  between  these  two  poets, 
Mr.  Aiken  and  Mr.  Wallis,"  Jason  began  it,  *'  that 
is  strikingly  interesting.  It  is  neither  in  subject 
nor  treatment,  but  in  the  way  they  look  at  life. 
And  I  think  in  both  cases  it  is  a  deliberate  adven- 
ture on  their  part." 

"  I  confess  they  both  appal  me,"  remarked 
Psyche. 

"  I  shivered  when  I  read  both  volumes,"  Cassan- 
dra informed  us.  "  And  I  think  it  was  less  be- 
cause of  the  things  these  poets  write  about,  than 

375 


376      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

the  fact  that  they  might  be  true.  William  Win- 
dune  and  Forslin  are  types  to  upset  one's  faith  in 
the  sobriety  of  humanity." 

"  No,  Cassandra,"  I  said.  "  They  shouldn't 
upset  our  faith  in  the  soundness  of  humanity,  but 
rather  increase  the  faith  we  have  in  what  we  know 
to  be  good." 

"  The  testament  of  Windune,"  remarked  Jason, 
"  merely  prescribes  a  philosophy  of  life ;  Forslin's 
adventures  fill  the  prescription." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Wallis'  poem?" 
asked  Psyche. 

"  Well,  as  a  poet  first,"  I  answered,  "  I  think 
he  is  one  who  disregards  the  tendencies  of  his 
time,  borrows  the  method  and  attitude  of  an  old 
but  famous  French  poet,  uses  them  with  the  same 
gusto  and  frankness,  and  produces  a  fine  and 
vivid  achievement.  It  seems  almost  gratuitous 
to  quote  this  explanatory  sub-title  that  '  The 
Testament  of  William  Windune '  is  a  '  Poem  in 
which  Windune  disposeth  of  his  worldly  Goods, 
and  maketh  Mention  and  Disposition  of  divers 
other  Matters,  all  this  being  modelled  after  The 
Greater  Testament  of  Fran9ois  Villon.' 

"  Now  will  I  for  a  moment  tell 

Of  him,  my  prototype,  who  knew 
This  transitory  world  so  well. 

His  ancient  verse  to  me  and  you 

Is  just  as  vital  and  as  new 
As  any  of  the  present  time. 

Would  we  had  one  like  him  to  do 
Some  rough,  hard  work  for  modern  rime! 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  377 

This  stanza  concludes  the  ballade  in  which  Win- 
dune  tells  of  his  purpose,  and  of  the  tribute  he 
pays  to  his  master,  Villon.  The  final  line  is  what 
attracts  our  attention  at  this  moment,  for  the 
poet  himself  bids  in  this  volume  to  supply  the  need 
for  '  Some  rough,  hard  work  for  modern  rime ! ' 
In  the  fifth,  sixth  and  seventh  ballades  we  re- 
ceive a  statement  of  the  poet's  philosophy.  It  is 
a  preliminary  to  be  thoroughly  understood  before 
the  reader  can  follow  with  sympathetic  apprecia- 
tion the  legacy  of  Windune's  spiritual  and  ma- 
terial possessions.  The  *  rough,  hard  work  for 
modern  rime,'  consists  no  more  in  the  truth  that 
Windune  proposes  to  tell  than  in  the  convictions 
he  holds  that  the  very  purposes  of  life  are  ob- 
scure. By  this  one  must  not  conclude  that  there 
is  either  a  lack  of  vision  or  of  emotional  stimulus 
in  this  man." 

"  After  all  isn't  it  a  profoundly  serious  matter, 
this  one  of  questioning  life,  its  contradictions,  and 
eternal  wonders?"  asked  Jason.  "But  there  is 
an  intensity  of  desire  to  know,  to  delve  so  deep  into 
the  mysteries,  that  the  mind  brings  up  from  the 
sea  of  implications  and  inscrutable  signs,  the 
pearls  of  glowing  pessimism.  Mr.  Wallis  is  not 
exactly  a  pessimist ;  but  the  word  comes  nearest  to 
expressing  that  mood  which  dwells  upon  aspects 
of  negation.  There  is  a  continually  witnessing 
of  dissolution  in  the  world ;  of  youth  hungrily 
snatching  up  the  crumbs  of  joy  and  desire  before 
age  with  its  darkness  and  deadened  nerves  over- 
takes the  flesh  and  spirit.     Death  is  almost  tri- 


378      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

umphantly  chanting  because  it  is  like  a  fire  cleans- 
ing all  the  dross  of  the  world.  Among  the  small 
group  of  miscellaneous  poems  which  follow  the 
'  Testament,'  there  is  one  called  '  Wind  Over- 
head,' from  which  I  quote  this  stanza  to  show  how 
sombrely  this  substance  has  taken  hold  of  the 
poet's  imagination: 

"  We  belong  to  that  pitiful  sect 

That  is  subject  to  chance's  wild  caprice. 
To  the  ravage  of  years  and  the  plot  of  disease. 
We  are  creation's  most  select, 
"  The  acme  or  the  apogee 

Of  Nature's  infinite  brotherhood; 
Ours  is  the  knowledge  of  evil  and  good. 
Since  Eve  did  eat  of  that  mystical  tree ! 

(And  the  fruit  was  death  in  that  orchard-wood.) 

But  it  has  not  impressed  itself  without  first  cut- 
ting the  die  of  consciousness  with  some  primary 
beliefs.  We  go  back  to  those  three  ballades  I 
have  mentioned,  two  of  which  deal  with  the  *  Mat- 
ter of  Great  Erudition,'  and  the  other  with  '  Re- 
ality.' From  these  let  me  quote.  The  '  Matter 
of  Erudition  '  is  an  important  factor  in  determin- 
ing the  results  to  be  reached  about  life.  The 
argument  of  Windune  reaches  this  specula- 
tion : 

"  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  life? 

Time  toys  with  senseless  force  and  dust. 
Transmutes  them  into  man  and  wife 
Or  into  hate  or  love  or  lust. 
Each,  as  it  is  predestined,  must 


IN  GLORIA  IVIUNDI  379 

Begin  and  flourish,  lastly  fall. 

So  that  we  can  but  question,  just 
What  is  the  goal  or  good  of  all? 

"  Time  toys  with  senseless  force  and  dust 

And  by  his  wondrous  wand  transmutes 
The  same  to  baker's  dough  or  crust 

Or  lovely  girls  in  linen  suits. 

To  chauffeurs  who  elude  pursuits. 
To  millionaires  and  motormen. 

To  waving  grains  or  luscious  fruits  — 
Then  whirls  it  all  to  dust  again. 

"  There  must  be  some  delusion  here. 

Our  lives,  if  finite,  cannot  be 
If  there  exists,  as  would  appear, 

A  temporal  infinity.* 

And  yet,  none  could  convince  us  we 
Are  non-existent.     Hence  a  press 

Of  studies  in  philosophy 
Arise,  in  number  numberless. 

Now  in  the  ballade  on  '  Reality  '  the  search  is 
made  for  truth  from  a  different  angle.  Here  an 
ironic  possibility  is  bruited,  which  may  alter  the 
entire  significance  of  that  '  temporal  infinity  '  so 
deluding  in  its  appearance.  The  suspended  ques- 
tion in  this  stanza  admits  of  no  miracle,  but  leads 
to  a  decided  responsibility  on  the  part  of  nature 
for  still  further  concessions  to  the  intelligence  of 
matter: 

*  By  mathematical  calculation  seventy,  a  life's  span,  is 
no  part  of  infinity,  or  seventy  divided  by  infinity  equals 
nothing  i'^%o  =  0). 


380      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

"  The  Roman  ladies  sat  and  spun 

And  gossiped  in  the  knowing  way 
That  gentle  dames  have  always  done. 

And  sewing  circles  do  to-day. 

But  they  by  time  were  swept  away 
Where  none  can  hear  them  more  or  see; 

And  we  shall  last  no  more  than  they  — 
What  is  the  true  reality? 

"  Through  five  informants  we  have  one 

Coordinate  report;  we  say 
Our  minds   have  gained  dominion 

Of  suns  and  planets,  air  and  clay. 

But  changed  is  all  as  night  from  day 
To  one  with  senses  four  or  three. 

Who  knows  what  six  might  not  display  — 
What  is  the  true  reality.^ 

"  A  ship  of  many  a  thousand  ton 

When  sighted  is  a  speck  of  gray; 
Each  star,  although  a  flaming  sun. 

Seems  but  a  dot  of  luminous  rav, 

Less  than  a  puny  seed  of  hay 
Held  overclosely  to  the  eye. 

What  standard  is  there  to  portray 
What  is  the  true  reality.'' 

L' Envoi 

"  Professors,  can  time  make  and  slay 
An  entity,  can  senses  be, 
With  space,  delusion?     Tell  me,  pray. 
What  is  the  true  reality? 

"  It  is  a  little  disconcerting,  however,  "  I  said, 
"  to  have  the  poet,  after  giving  us  a  glimpse  into 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  381 

the  vista  of  this  mystic  possibility  of  the  sixth 
sense,  to  fall  back  upon  the  flat,  negative  assump- 
tion of  this  stanza  in  the  second  ballade  on  the 
'  Matter  of  Great  Erudition  ' : 

"  The  world  is  full  of  wonders,  all 

And  each  is  wonderful  to  me. 
In  kitchen-vessels  on  the  wall. 

Hanging  on  hook  or  nail,  I  see 

Types  of  materiality. 
Reminders  man  and  metals  fall 

In  the  same  class  with  bird  and  bee. 
As  crumbling  and  ephemeral. 

And  to  gather  all  his  substance  into  this  thicken- 
ing gloom  of  doubt  that  has  a  faint  candle  gleam 
wavering  and  eluding  our  guidance  in  the  dark : 

"  We  have  but  faith,  we  cannot  know. 

For  all  we  know  would  point  our  doom. 
What  we  can  grasp  would  go  to  show 

The  fearful  meaning  of  the  tomb. 

One  race  that  fills  another's  room 
Is  all  our  minds  can  help  us  see, 

And  faith  in  all  that  lights  the  gloom 
That  overhangs  our  destiny, 

"  With  this  ballade  Windune  ends  his  specula- 
tion and  takes  up  the  '  legatees  of  high  import.' 
They  are,  as  he  says,  of  '  varied  sort.'  He  be- 
queaths his  body  to  the  earth,  to  his  Alma  Mater, 
'  Mother  Yale,'  stern  honor  and  a  stainless  name ; 
to  his  own  mother  *  griefs  above  each  interested 
assignee,'  to  his  native  town  the  honor  of  his  birth ; 
to  a  bereaved  father  mourning  the  death  of  his 


382      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

son,  a  rondel  of  sorrow ;  to  magnates  a  '  coin  to 
typify  their  graft,'  and  finally  in  an  explanatory 
ballade  he  would  have  his  'verse,  his  Tests,  and 
his  Aims,'  win  '  a  very  modest  place  amid  the 
poets'  gatherings.'  There  are  ballades  touching 
incidentally  upon  other  subjects,  the  entire  poem 
producing  an  original  and  effective  testament  of 
life. 

"  The  small  group  of  miscellaneous  poems  in- 
cluded," I  continued,  "  have  that  same  exceptional 
quality  of  thought  that  characterizes  the  '  Testa- 
ment.' The  verse  is  modelled  on  severe  lines  with 
a  grave  music.  '  Wind  Overhead,'  '  Impartial,' 
'  A  Ballad  of  John  Davidson,'  '  Winter,'  and  the 
*  Ode  of  Gaea,'  are  touched  with  visionary  sub- 
stances that  come  to  a  surface  of  sombre  and 
searching  moods.  In  the  poem  called  '  A  Summer 
Day,'  there  is  something  with  all  that  terrific  force 
which  Lionel  Johnson  put  into  a  poem  he  named 
'  Victory,'  only  in  this  instance  Mr.  WaUis  has 
given  us  the  reverse  of  that  experience : 

"  Somehow  it  seemed  the  open  air 

Might  cleanse  her  of  her  first  disgrace. 
And  so  she  found  a  sunny  place 
And  stretched  herself  in  silence  there. 

"  Her  body  she  had  loved  to  touch 

And  tend  and  gaze  on  and  control. 
And  even  her  inmost  private  soul 
Felt  soiled  with  an  enduring  smutch. 

"  Although  there  had  seemed  nothing  true 
But  passion  when  she  yielded,  yet 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  383 

She  shut  her  eyes  to  help  forget 
And  —  lest  the  sun  might  stare  her  through, 

"  Then,  with  a  little  moan  of  pain, 
She  turned  upon  her  side  and  saw 
The  hot,  grey  clouds  that  strove  to  draw 
Rare  moisture  for  the  blessed  rain. 

"  She  felt  tJi-  burnt  grass  with  her  palm 
And  thought  that  it  was  blasted  too, 
And  yearned  for  rain  or  healing  dew 
As  she  for  death  or  changeless  calm. 

"  The  very  air  seemed  choked  with  shame. 
In  the  high  trees  no  frail  leaf  stirred. 
Only  a  little  scarlet  bird 
Shot  through  the  air,  a  shaft  of  flame. 

"  Hearing  at  length  a  whistle  shrill, 

She  loosed  her  clenched  hands  from  the  dirt 
And  wearily  arranged  her  skirt 
As  he  came  slouching  up  the  hill. 

"  Mr.  Wallis  was  class  poet  at  Yale.  He  has 
struck  in  this  volume  a  note,  envisaged  a  sub- 
stance, so  finely  shaped  and  tuned  to  the  scrupu- 
lous orderliness  of  thought  and  form,  that  its  im- 
portance will  be  seriously  acknowledged  by  the 
truly  discriminating  students  of  contemporary 
poetry." 

"  And  '  The  Jig  of  Forslin,'  "  Psyche  prodded 
us  on,  "  what  do  you  both  make  of  that  weird, 
nauseous  jumble  of  adventures?" 

"  Well,  I've  asked  myself,"  I  began,  taking  ad- 


384      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

vantage  of  Jason's  silence,  "  has  Conrad  Aiken 
written,  in  this  poem,  a  masterpiece,  or  merely  be- 
fuddled an  idea  with  dexterous  twists  of  rhythms 
laden  with  the  most  melancholy  and  sordid  stuff 
of  dreams?  Through  the  first  two  parts  of  this 
narrative  this  question  kept  intruding  upon  my 
reading.  Then  my  emotions  and  my  thoughts 
began  to  rise  on  something  for  all  its  dark  phan- 
tasmagorias, up,  up  on  the  wings  of  beauty,  strik- 
ing a  level  flight  until  with  the  poem  I  seemed  to 
vanish  off  into  regions  having  neither  time  nor 
space,  becoming  lost  in  a  kind  of  void.  There  is 
no  way  to  come  back  by  the  route  of  Mr.  Aiken's 
poem.  You  begin  it  as  one  caught  in  an  irresisti- 
ble current  that  runs  through  other  currents  and 
all  gravitating  towards  an  unknown  centre;  diva- 
gations become  confusing,  until  suddenly  the  emo- 
tions take  a  lurch  and  as  suddenly  settle  on  an 
even  keel  the  prow  of  thought  smothered  in  a  foam 
of  dreams  sailing  magnificently  through  a  sea  of 
'  vicarious  experience.'  This  vicarious  experi- 
ence is  really  supposed  to  begin  immediately  one 
gets  through  Forslin's  prologue;  the  *jig'  gets 
into  action,  as  it  were,  as  soon  as  these  lines  are 
recorded, 

"  Was  I  that  man  ?     How  should  I  know  ? 
Yet,  when  I  die,  that  man  will  die  with  me. 
Deep  music  now,  with  lap  and  flow, 
Green  music  streaked  with  gleams  and  bubbles  of 

light. 
Bears  me  softly  away.     Come  down  with  me !  .  .  . 
We  will  live  strange  lives  before  this  night  — 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  385 

which  ends  the  prologue,  but  through  the  first 
and  second  parts  it  is  all  blind  following  until  the 
reader  gets  his  gait. 

"  The  poet  has  struck  his  gait  only  in  the  sense 
that  he  has  prepared  his  laboratory,  got  his  in- 
struments and  his  subject  in  the  experimental 
stage.  He  works  upon  his  problem  before  the 
reader  gets  a  clue  to  his  intentions.  The  reader 
can  turn  to  the  poet's  preface  for  a  clue  if  he 
desires,  and  I  recommend  that  he  have  such  a  desire 
and  fulfils  it;  for  in  spite  of  my  objections  to 
introductions  to  books  of  poetry,  in  this  case  it  is 
appropriate  and  instructive.  A  passage  from  the 
preface  I  extract  here  so  as  to  give  insight  into  this 
strange,  and  sometimes  beautiful  and  sometimes 
overpowering  narrative :  '  Complications  arise 
from  the  fact  that  "  The  Jig  of  Forslin  "  is  some- 
what new,  both  in  method  and  in  structure.  It 
does  not  conveniently  fit  in  any  category,  and  is 
therefore  liable,  like  all  such  works,  to  be  con- 
demned for  not  being  something  it  was  never  in- 
tended to  be.  The  critics  who  like  to  say  "  this 
man  is  a  realist,"  or  "  this  man  is  a  romanticist," 
or  in  some  such  way  to  tag  an  author  once  and  for 
all,  will  here  find  it  difficult.  For  my  intention 
has  been  to  employ  all  methods,  attitudes,  slants, 
each  in  its  proper  place,  as  a  necessary  and  vital 
part  of  any  such  study  as  this.  Consequently^,  it 
is  possible  to  pick  out  portions  of  this  poem  to 
exemplify  almost  any  poetic  method  or  tone. 
This  eclecticism,  or  passage  from  one  part  to  an- 
other of  the  poetic  gamut,  has  not  been  at  random 


386      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

or  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  tour  de  force;  it  has  been 
guided  entirely  by  the  central  theme.  This  theme 
is  the  process  of  vicarious  wish  fulfilment  by  which 
civilized  man  enriches  his  circumscribed  life  and 
obtains  emotional  balance.  It  is  an  exploration 
of  his  emotional  and  mental  hinterland,  his  fairy- 
land of  impossible  illusions  and  dreams ;  ranging, 
on  the  one  extreme,  from  the  desire  for  a  complete 
tyranny  of  body  over  mind,  to  the  desire,  on  the 
other  extreme,  for  a  complete  tyranny  of  mind 
over  body;  by  successive  natural  steps  ...  in 
either  direction.' 

"  The  central  theme,"  I  kept  on,  "  is  based  upon 
the  Freudian  psychology,  and  '  The  Jig  of  Fors- 
lin  '  is  '  one  man's  adventure  in  other  men's  lives.' 
'  On  the  psychological  side,'  remarks  the  poet,  '  it 
is  obvious  enough  that  the  range  of  vicarious  ex- 
perience, here  of  necessity  only  hinted  at,  or  sym- 
bolized by  certain  concrete  and  selected  pictures, 
is  suggested  on  a  completer  and  more  compre- 
hensive plan  than  will  be  found  in  any  specific  in- 
dividual: a  good  many  types  have  been  welded, 
to  give  the  widest  possible  range.  Forslin  is 
not  a  man,  but  man.  Consequently,  opposite 
types  of  experience  are  here  often  found  side  by 
side,  and  it  would  be  obviously  false  to  force  a 
connection.' 

"  Forslin  as  the  hero  of  these  vicarious  adven- 
tures is  an  abstraction ;  but  the  adventures  are  as 
concrete  as  a  sneezing  neighbor,  and  in  that  psy- 
chology is  as  demonstrable  as  the  laboratory 
method  of  any  scientist.     Mr.  Aiken  calls  his  poem 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  387 

a  symphony,  and  affirms  it  by  the  recurrence  of 
theme,  but  in  every  other  respect  it  has  no  sym- 
phonic structure ;  that  theme  is  the  Freudian  psy- 
chology," and  I  read : 

"  Once  I  loved;  and  once  I  died;  and  once 
I  murdered  my  lover,  my  lover  who  had  betrayed 

me. 
Once  I  stepped  from  the  threshold,  and  saw  my  body 
Huddled  in  purple  snow. 

Once  I  escaped  my  flesh  and  rose  on  starlight. 
The  theme  returns  .  .  .  We  bow  our  hearts  and  go. 

Again, 

"  Silent  as  thought  in  evening  contemplation 
Weaves  the  bat  under  the  gathering  stars. 
Silent  as  dew  we  seek  new  incarnation. 
Mediate  new  avatars. 

Again, 

"  You  smoke  with  me :  you  do  not  think 
That  I  have  stood  by  Jordan's  brink : 
You  talk  with  me,  and  do  not  guess 
That  I  have  power  to  curse  or  bless.  .  .  . 
You  think  you  know  me,  know  my  name. 
Can  tell  me  where  and  whence  I  came  — 
Is  knowing  to  be  so  simple,  then.'' 
And  am  I  one,  or  a  million  men? 

Again, 

"  Tired  of  change,  I  seek  the  unmoving  centre  — 
But  is  it  moveless  —  or  are  all  things  turning? 
Great  wheels  revolve.     I  fall  among  them  and  die. 


S88      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

My  veins  are  streets.     Millions  of  men  rush  through 

them. 
Which,  in  this  terrible  multitude,  is  I  ? 
I  hurry  to  him,  I  plunge  through  jostling  darkness, 
I  think  I  see  his  face  — 

He's  gone.     And  a  sinister  stranger  leers  at  me. 
Countless  eyes  of  strangers  are  turned  toward  me. 
Who's  this  that  all  our  eyes  are  turned  to  see.'' 

And  in  the  epilogue,  the  poet  shoots  the  conviction 
in  a  rhythmic  comet  vanishing  in  magnificence 
through  the  illimitable  corridors  of  dream: 

"  Time.  .  .  .  Time.  .  .  .  Time.  ,  .  . 
And  through  the  immortal  silence  we  may  hear 
The  choral  stars  like  great  clocks  tick  and  chime. 
Destiny,  with  inquisitorial  eye. 
Regards  the  jewelled  movement  of  the  sky. 
And  there  alone,  in  a  little  lamplit  room. 
Immortal,  changeless,  in  a  changeless  dream, 
Forslin  sits  and  meditates ;  and  hears 
The  hurrying  days  go  down  to  join  the  years.  .  .  . 

"  The  music  weaves  about  him,  gold  and  silver; 
The  music  chatters,  the  music  sings. 
The  music  sinks  and  dies. 

Who  dies,  who  lives  ?     What  leaves  remain  forever  ? 
Who  knows  the  secret  of  the  immortal  springs  ? 
Who  laughs,  who  kills,  who  cries  ? 

"  We  hold  them  all,  they  walk  our  dreams  forever. 
Nothing  perishes  in  that  haunted  air. 
Nothing  but  is  immortal  there. 
And  we  ourselves,  dying  with  all  our  worlds. 
Will  only  pass  the  ghostly  portal 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  389 

Into  another's  dream ;  and  so  live  on 
Through  dream  to  dream,  immortal." 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  echoes  in  Mr.  Aiken's  poem," 
asserted  Jason.  " '  What  leaves  remain  for- 
ever? '  is  an  echo  of  Swinburne's  '  No  life  tires  for- 
ever '  from  *  The  Garden  of  Proserpine.'  " 

"  That's  the  essence  of  the  theme.  The  fulfil- 
ment as  given  in  this  narrative  I  have  not  touched, 
nor  can  I  touch  upon  it  with  adequate  explanation. 
The  main  thing  is  to  try  to  understand  what  '  The 
Jig  of  Forslin  '  means;  to  enjoy  that  meaning  is 
for  every  individual  reader  to  test  himself.  The 
test  must  be  individual.  The  many  dream-lives 
that  Forslin  lives  will  upset  many  a  calculation; 
but  only  let  me  urge,  where  that  calculation  pro- 
ceeds from  an  unperceptive  emotionalism.  Fors- 
lin is  really  the  autobiography  of  humanity,  an 
autobiography  indited  with  the  apparent  care- 
lessness and  disconnection  of  the  record  Mark 
Twain  left  us  of  his  life.  We  can  say  of  him  as 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  said  of  Flammonde  in 
his  poem  of  that  name,  '  What  was  he  and  what 
was  he  not  ? '  Murderer  of  many  kinds  and 
degrees,  juggler,  lover  of  mermaids  and  lamias. 
Peter  the  Apostle  before  Golgotha  —  all  these 
was  that  man  who  sat  in  the  lamplit  room  medi- 
tating himself  into  other  lives,  times  and  climes, 
escaping  self  and  environment,  which  is,  as  Mr. 
Aiken  wisely  makes  the  embodiment  of  his  poem, 
the  strongest  wish  in  man.  It  is  the  desire  to 
drown  self  in  a  different  experience,  no  matter 


390      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

what  the  mode,  as  the  vicariousness  of  Forslin's 
adventures  show.     So, 

"  Let  us  drown,  then,  if  to  drown  is  but  to  change : 
Drown  in  the  days  of  those  whose  days  are  strange ; 
Close  our  eyes,  and  drown ; 
Wearily,  without  effort,  at  our  leisure, 
In  some  strange  sea-pool,  lit  with  sun  and  treasure. 
Sink  slowly  down 

From  the  bright  waves  above  our  phantom  hands 
To  vales  of  twilight  sands.  .  .  . 

"  Grown  weary  of  ourselves,  these  tedious  hours. 
Our  voices,  our  eternal  pulses  drumming. 
Our  doubts,  our  hesitations,  our  regrets, 
And  the  shrinking  self  that  sits  within  and  cow- 
ers .  .  . 
Let  us  descend  in  some  strange  sea-pool ; 
Creep  through  the  caves  to  hear  the  great  tide  com- 
ing; 
Forget  our  souls  that  murmur  of  unpaid  debts. 

"  Whether  you  like  the  poem  or  not,  touching 
as  it  does  upon  sordid  and  ghastly  episodes,  you 
cannot  deny  that  it  strikes  an  original  note. 
Even  this  would  hardly  make  it  stand  out  if  the 
forms  employed  did  not  so  adequately  carry  out 
the  intention.  As  I  said,  the  first  two  parts,  units 
as  they  are,  will  tend  to  confuse  the  reader ;  they 
are  like  the  opening  chapters  of  many  a  famous 
novel,  a  little  difficult  to  focus  the  interest,  have 
the  effect  of  tuning  up.  But  in  spite  of  this,  the 
poem  as  a  whole  is  unlike  anything  else.  The 
sensibilities  will  be  offended,  the  coarseness  of  the 


IN  GLORIA  MUNDI  391 

picaresque  novel  Is  introduced,  and  yet  there  are 
sections  of  mystical  beauty  and  lyrical  intensity. 
As  a  poet  Mr.  Aiken  gains  immeasurably  with  this 
poem,"  I  finished. 


XIX 

APOLOGIA 

Jason  was  in  high  glee  when  he  came  down  to 
The  Farm  for  our  final  discussion  of  the  year. 
He  carried  a  little  blue  covered  magazine  published 
at  Cornhill,  in  Boston,  a  magazine  called  The 
Poetry  Journal,  which  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Ed- 
mund Brown,  publishes  and  edits,  and  of  which 
I  have  pleasant  memories.  "  Come  on,"  Jason 
shouted,  as  soon  as  he  reached  us,  waiting  for 
him  on  the  porch,  "  this  is  the  day  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion " —  and  opening  the  pages  of  the  little  maga- 
zine as  he  stood  on  the  steps,  read  with  a  flourish, 
" '  There  is  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  let  the  In- 
quisition take  its  course,  to  launch  the  brief  of 
excommunication,  and  to  deliver  the  culprit  over 
to  the  secular  arm  to  be  burnt.'  Come  on,"  he 
shouted  again.  "  And  I'm  going  to  be  the  execu- 
tioner." 

"  In  spite  of  the  four  infinitives  crowding  each 
other  in  so  short  a  sentence,"  I  remarked,  "  I  am 
ready,  though  I  don't  quite  understand  the  source 
of  your  hilarity.  Come  on,"  I  in  turn  exhorted 
Psyche  and  Cassandra,  "  let's  have  this  over,  what- 
ever it  is." 

It  was  a  fine  late  October  day.     The  air  was 

biting,  but  we  were  warmly  protected  against  it, 

392 


APOLOGIA  393 

enjoying  our  bracing  walk  to  the  woods.  The 
woods,  also,  were  almost  bare  and  desolate,  but 
they  had  no  effect  upon  the  ardor  of  this  our  last 
visit.  We  soon  reached  our  grove,  and  warmly 
wrapped,  seated  ourselves  upon  some  fallen  logs, 
which  Jason  and  I  had  dragged  together  to  pro- 
tect us  from  the  damp  ground. 

"  Now,  Jason,"  I  said,  "  tell  us  what  it  is  all 
about." 

"  Well,  you  know,"  he  answered,  "  you  insisted 
that  our  final  gathering  should  be  a  discussion  of 
the  new  '  Anthology.'  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  I  wanted  your  frank  opin- 
ion of  the  work." 

"  Just  before  I  came  up,"  continued  Jason, 
"  my  copy  of  The  Poetry  Journal  arrived,  and 
I  found  a  review  of  the  book  in  it  by  John  Gould 
Fletcher.  The  attack  by  Mr.  Aiken,  begun  last 
year  in  its  pages,  is  continued  this  year  by  Mr. 
Fletcher.  He  says :  '  Mr.  Braithwaite  thinks 
that  the  present  war  will  produce  another  epoch- 
making  group  of  American  writers  to  corre- 
spond to  Cooper  and  Irving,  whom  he  calls 
products  of  the  Civil  War.  Let  me  inform 
the  indulgent  reader  that  Cooper  was  born  in 
1789,  when  the  American  Revolution  was  fin- 
ished and  the  French  Revolution  begun,  and  that 
his  first  novel  dates  from  1821.  Pursuing  these 
researches  in  the  flowery  bye-paths  of  history,  we 
likewise  ascertain  that  Irving  was  born  in  the  year 
that  peace  was  made,  in  1793,  and  that  he  spent 
most  of  his  life  in  England.     As  for  Longfellow 


394      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

and  Emerson,  we  know  of  the  former  that  he  was 
born  in  1806  and  practically  completed  his  life 
work  with  "  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  "  in  1863, 
while  the  latter  came  three  years  earlier,  and  had 
published  his  "  Essays,"  "  Poems,"  "  English 
Traits,"  and  "  Representative  Men,"  before  1860. 
So  when  Mr.  Braithwaite  says  that  "  the  fermen- 
tation of  national  affairs  has  always  antedated 
the  spiritual  flowering,"  he  is  making  a  statement 
easily  disprovable.  What  great  American  work 
was  produced  after  the  Civil  War?  And  why  did 
the  first  outburst  of  the  New  Poetry  —  as  he  him- 
self admits  —  come  in  1912?  '  " 

"  Don't  you  mind  what  Mr.  Fletcher  says," 
spoke  up  Psyche  and  Cassandra  sympathetically, 
"  and  surely  he  is  not  so  bad  an  historian  as  to 
place  Cooper  and  Irving  with  the  Civil  War;  it 
must  be  a  printer's  mistake,  and  so  must  be  his 
saying  that  Irving  was  born  in  1793  instead  of 
1783." 

I  laughed.  "  That  introduction  has  been  much 
misunderstood,"  I  commented.  "  Mr.  Fletcher's 
criticism  proves  that  all  most  people  can  see  are 
facts  and  figures.  Things  they  can  see  with  the 
eye  and  touch  with  the  hands.  August,  1914,  is 
a  momentous  date,  but  the  preparation  for  that 
date,  which  goes  back  for  a  generation,  they  are 
blind  to.  The  date  is  only  a  symbol, —  the  sym- 
bol of  spiritual  or  material  cycles  in  which  we 
move.  I  still  maintain, —  and  it  makes  little  dif- 
ference whether  the  writer  or  the  group  of  writers, 
preceded    or    followed    the    calendar    dates    when 


APOLOGIA  395 

wars  were  declared  and  ended,  that  the  essence 
of  physical  conflict  in  the  minds  of  men,  which  is 
a  national  fermentation,  antedates  creative  flow- 
ering. You  can't  disprove  a  spiritual  influence 
by  material  figures  of  day,  month  and  year. 
Not  only  does  this  corollary  of  creative  spirit 
and  destructive  force  exist,  bound  within  the  cir- 
cle of  a  period,  but  you  will  find  as  a  proof  of 
my  contention,  in  its  general  aspect,  that  the 
authors  of  the  two  previous  literary  epochs  in 
American  letters  were  preoccupied  with  themes, 
in  substance  and  subject,  drawn  from  the  causes 
and  deeds  of  Revolutionary  and  Civil  War  his- 
tory. I  am  afraid  what  we  need  in  American 
criticism  is  a  little  more  spiritual  imagination." 

"  That  is  a  good  introduction  to  Mr.  Fletcher's 
next  most  important  point  of  censure,"  said  Ja- 
son. "  He  says,  '  Now  just  as  the  strength  of  a 
chain  is  in  its  weakest  link,  so  the  strength  of  an 
artist  or  critic  can  only  be  tested  by  examining 
his  weakness.  The  fine  quality  of  any  work  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  blame  or  praise.  We  only 
measure  the  defects,  the  gaps,  the  voids,  and  esti- 
mate their  effect.  This  is  especially  true  with  re- 
gard to  criticism.  The  critic  can  only  be  judged 
by  his  lapses  from  a  certain  high  standard.' 
The  fallacy  of  the  statement  is  on  the  very 
surface,"  I  replied.  "  Wliat  Mr.  Fletcher  says 
in  eff"ect  is,  that  a  critic  should  have  no  *  lapses 
from  a  certain  high  standard.'  I  wonder  if  he 
could  point  out  a  critic  in  the  whole  range  of  liter- 
ature who  has  never  had  a  lapse?     The  greatest 


396      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

critical  work  in  English  literature  is  Coleridge's 
'  Biographia  Literari,'  and  so  we  must  judge  that 
work,  full  of  lapses,  from  that  point  of  view.  Ar- 
thur Symons,  I  remember,  wrote  that  it  was  '  one 
of  the  most  annoying  books  in  any  language. 
The  thought  of  Coleridge  has  to  be  pursued  across 
stones,  ditches,  and  morasses ;  with  haste,  linger- 
ing, and  disappointment ;  it  turns  back,  loses  itself, 
fetches  wide  circuits,  and  comes  back  to  no  visible 
end.  But  you  must  follow  it  step  by  step  and,  if 
you  are  ceaselessly  attentive,  will  be  ceaselessly  re- 
warded.' Let  me  quote,  while  I  am  at  it,"  I  said, 
"  another  paragraph  of  Symons  graven  on  the 
tablets  of  my  memory,  which  is  very  much  needed 
in  American  literature  to-day.  It  is  the  ideal  of 
what  criticism  should  be.  He  saj's,  that  '  Criti- 
cism, when  it  is  not  mere  talk  about  literature, 
concerns  itself  with  the  first  principles  of  hu- 
man nature  and  with  fundamental  ideas.  There 
is  a  quite  valuable  kind  of  critic  to  whom  a 
book  is  merely  a  book,  who  is  interested  in  things 
as  they  become  words,  in  emotions  only  as  they 
add  fine  raptures  to  printed  pages.  To  such 
critics  we  owe  rules  and  systems ;  when  they  tabu- 
late or  elucidate  metre  or  any  principle  of  form, 
they  are  doing  a  humble  but  useful  service  to 
artists.  Their  comments  on  books  are  often 
pleasant  reading,  sometimes  turning  into  a  kind 
of  literature,  essays,  which  we  are  content  to  read 
for  their  own  charm.  But  there  is  hardly  any- 
thing idler  than  literary  criticism  which  is  a  mere 
describing  and  comparing  of  books,  a  mere  praise 


APOLOGIA  397 

and  blame  of  this  and  that  writer  and  his  work. 
When  Coleridge  writes  a  criticism  of  Shakespeare, 
he  is  giving  us  his  deepest  philosophy,  in  a  man- 
ner in  which  we  can  best  apprehend  it.  Criticism 
with  Goethe  is  part  of  his  view  of  the  world,  his 
judgment  of  human  nature,  and  of  society.  With 
Pater,  criticism  is  quickened  meditation ;  with 
Matthew  Arnold,  a  form  of  moral  instruction  or 
mental  satire.  Lamb  said  in  his  criticism  more 
of  what  he  had  to  say  of  "  what  God  and  man  is," 
with  more  gravity  and  more  intensity,  than  in  any 
other  part  of  his  work.'  " 

"  How  ridiculous,  after  such  a  standard,  Mr. 
Fletcher  looks  with  his,  '  Now  just  as  the  strength 
of  a  chain  is  in  its  weakest  link,  so  the  strength 
of  an  artist  or  critic  can  only  be  tested  by  exam- 
ing  his  weakness,'  "  commented  Psyche. 

"  Well,  the  difference  is,"  I  said,  "  that  Arthur 
Symons  is  a  creative  critic,  and  only  a  creative 
critic  reasons  deeply  and  consistently." 

"  I'll  pass  by,"  said  Jason,  "  the  isolated  lines 
and  stanzas  which  Mr.  Fletcher  quotes,  to  prove 
what  bad  poetry  the  '  Anthology  '  contains.  He 
says :  '  I  have  given  samples  above  .  .  .  pref- 
aced with  the  sententious  platitude :  "  To  appre- 
ciate poetry  one  must  be  able  to  recognize  the  im- 
mortal virtues  that  give  to  art  its  significance."  ' 
I  always  suspected,"  Jason  threw  at  me,  "  that 
you  were  given  to  '  sententious  platitudes.'  " 

"  Well,  I  will  at  least  stick  to  that  one,"  I  re- 
plied. "  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Fletcher  understood 
what  I  meant?     His  interpretation  was  in  blindly 


398      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

and  narrowly  applying  the  phrase  '  to  recognize 
the  immortal  virtues,'  to  form  —  the  form  of 
poetry.  It  was  not  at  all  what  I  meant.  You 
must  recognize  and  understand,  as  Arthur  Sym- 
ons  said,  the  substances  of  life.  This  is  as  nec- 
essary to  the  critic  as  to  the  poet.  The  '  im- 
mortal virtues  '  of  life  are  the  deep  and  eternal 
instincts." 

"  All  the  same  there  is  a  lot  of  rubbish  in  the 
'  Anthology,' "  Jason  veered  off  from  Mr. 
Fletcher's  criticism. 

"  That's  as  you  look  at  it,"  I  responded. 
"  Perhaps  as  much  you  or  any  other  editor  might 
put  into  such  a  book.  Now,  if  you  want  to  hear 
a  bit  of  sensible  criticism  which  I  can  respect,"  I 
added,  "  let  me  read  this  poem  '  On  Reading  the 
Braithwaite  Anthology  for  1916,'  which  ap- 
peared in  the  correspondence  department  of  Miss 
Monroe's  '  Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse,'  writ- 
ten by  Mr.  Willard  Wattles.  I  am  sure  you  must 
have  seen  it."     And  I  read : 

"  All  the  poets  have  been  stripping, 
Quaintly  into  moonbeams  slipjoing, 
Running  out  like  wild  Bacchantes 
Minus  lingerie  and  panties, 
Never  knew  of  such  a  frantic 
Belviderean,  Corbyantic, 
Highty-tighty,  Aphrodite, 
Stepping  out  without  a  nightie. 

"  Edward  started  with  his  tragic 
Pan-Hellenic  pantless  '  Magic  ' 


APOLOGIA  399 

(Page  14)  ;  and  quite  as  bare 

Mrs.  Jean  Starr  .  .  . 

In  a  mood  as  unsartorial 

Leaves  her  '  Clothes '  as  a  memorial. 

Like  Carlyle  at  Craigenputtock 

Dancing  out  to  show  her  courage 

(At  34-,  one  has  to  sneeze. 

For  where,  oh  where  is  her  chemise?) 

And  then,  leaping  like  a  roe-buck 
Comes  athletic  Victor  Starbuck 
In  among  the  water-lilies 
Dipping  like  a  young  Achilles, 
Then  across  the  woods  he  scrambles 
(Woods  are  never  full  of  brambles) 
And  in  raiment  of  Apollo 
Sits  all  night  in  a  damp  hollow 
Like  another  drenched  Ulysses 
Scaring  the  Phaeaecian  missis 
Till  progressive  Nausicaa 
Led  him  home  to  her  deah  fathah  .  .  . 
All  the  frogs  were  frightened  green 
(You'll  find  it  all  on  114). 

'  What  with  running  and  with  racing, 
All  the  moonbeams  worth  the  chasing 
Some  of  silver  and  some  not. 
What  a  night  had  Mora  Scott ! 
Out  of  stars  to  leave  behind 
Ugolino  on  the  wind, 
Finding,  spite  of  hell's  alarms 
Firm  lips,  and  Paola's  arms. 

She  and  young  James  ought  to  rim 
(*  Out  o'  the  Stars/  page  31) 


400      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

Ruddy-cheeked  and  laughing-hearted 
Till  the  last  wild  faun  is  started 
And  the  white  nymphs  flee  to  cover 
From  their  shaggy,  laughing  lover. 
In  that  Red  Month  when  the  musky 
Heavy  grapes  are  amber-dusky 
Shot  with  ruby  through  and  through  — 
(Oppenheim  on  22). 

"  These  are  only  half  the  glories 
Of  these  white  Terpsichores 
Who  have  fled  their  clothes  to  antic 
Tunefully  and  so  Bacchantic; 
Even  staid  New  England  aunties 
Go  to  call  without  their  mantles. 
And  the  price  of  stays  and  laces 
Has  gone  down,  they  say,  at  Macy's. 
Reckless  earth-born  Odell  Shepard 
Goes  without  his  daily  leopard 
On  page  30 — (it's  not  bad. 
But  certainly  Odell  is  unclad). 

"  I've  a  niece  named  Elinore, 
Just  a  baby,  barely  four; 
And  her  parents,  feeling  pally, 
Took  her  to  the  Russian  Ballet 
Where  in  baby  mood,  ecstatic 
She  approved  them,  acrobatic. 
From  '  Le  Midi  d'un  Faune  ' 
To  that  white  and  wondrous  '  Swan,' 
Cleopatra's  eyes  of  jade 
To  that  mad  Scheherazade. 

"  Then  one  morning  my  good  sister 
Pausing  at  her  housework,  missed  her; 


APOLOGIA  401 

Elinore  of  yellow  hair 

Did  not  answer  anywhere. 

Down  before  the  house  she  found  her^ 

With  admiring  babies  round  her, 

Clad  in  one  small  shoe  and  stocking 

On  her  tiny  bare  toes  rocking, 

Pirouetting  so  sedately. 

Chubby,  funny,  staid,  and  stately, 

Gravely  tripping  the  fandango 

Or  some  Lilliputian  tango, — 

All  her  baby  body  given 

A  white  daisy  unto  Heaven. 

When  her  mother  stooped  to  fold  her 

In  her  arms,  she  could  not  scold  her 

(Though  by  this  time  all  the  neighbors 

Had  resigned  their  morning  labors). 

"  For  my  sister  knew  the  answer 
For  this  naked  little  dancer 
Who  had  shocked  the  postman  slightly 
Pacing  up  the  street  so  tritely. 
Leaving  letters  at  the  door 
Of  the  sprightly  Elinore: 
Had  he  known  Braithwaite's  Anthology 
He  had  needed  no  apology; 
All  the  constellations  show  it  — 
Elinore  will  be  a  poet !  " 

My  companions  had  allowed  me  to  go  on  talk- 
ing. The  afternoon  was  getting  late,  and  we 
must  soon  leave.  The  continued  silence  of  my 
friends  impelled  me  to  speak  again.  The  im- 
minence of  separation  prompted  my  thoughts. 
"  Here  in  this  grove  I  am  happy  in  having  real- 
ized  a  wonderful   fulfilment,"   I   said.     "  Voicing 


.402      THE  POETIC  YEAR  FOR  1916 

that  fulfilment  is  a  part  of  our  message  in  bidding 
farewell  to  this  place.  Though  we  separate,  we 
do  not  go  our  ways :  we  are  still  together  in  the 
thought  and  acceptance  of  the  great  future  for 
the  art  of  poetry  in  this  country.  It  has  been 
a  part  of  our  consciousness  during  all  these  happy 
summer  and  autumn  weeks.  As  we  discussed  this 
book  and  that,  across  our  minds  there  flitted  the 
figures  and  names  of  a  fine  company.  We  knew 
that  they  were,  at  the  very  moment  we  sat  here 
under  these  trees,  with  the  sounds  of  the  happy 
summer  making  a  musical  accompaniment  to  our 
thoughts  and  words  —  that  these  creators  of 
beautiful  moods  and  images,  were  building  us  newer 
glories  in  verse.  The  highest  level  of  truth  and 
beauty  in  America;  the  authentic  spirit  of  our 
profoundest  human  experience,  was  flowing  from 
the  souls  of  these  men  and  women.  Have  we  not 
a  right  to  anticipate  their  gifts  with  exultation? 
Think  of  this  great  reservoir  of  dreams  and  imag- 
ination, of  aspiration  and  vision,  of  truth  and 
beauty.  And  let  me  say,  you,  my  friends,  will 
not  be  true  to  the  spirit  of  this  grove,  to  our 
happy  companionship  here,  unless  during  the  com- 
ing months  you  — " 

"  Do  you  doubt  that  we  will  not?  "  Psyche  in- 
terrupted with  perfect  understanding  of  my 
thought. 

"  I  promise  to  do  more,"  Jason  agreed.  "  In 
my  wanderings  I  will  carry  the  message  of  their 
work.  The  memory  of  this  place  will  be  a  suf- 
ficient urge,  whatever  my  inclinations  may  be." 


APOLOGIA  403 

"  My  help,"  said  Cassandra,  "  will  be  modest 
but  sincere." 

"  Then,"  I  exclaimed,  "  our  experience  has  been 
profitable.     Now,  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Must  we?  "  asked  Psyche. 

No  one  would  answer  that  question  for  the  mo- 
ment. But  instinctively  we  all  arose.  Where 
the  sunlight  filtered  through  the  branches,  there 
was  a  soft  mellow  veil.  I  don't  know  whether  a 
haze  was  actually  visible  in  the  clearings  through 
the  woods,  but  I  am  sure  we  felt  it;  or,  perhaps, 
it  was  only  the  mood  which  the  moment  brought. 
The  reluctance  to  leave  the  place,  made  us  uncon- 
scious that  we  were  leaving  it.  It  was  not  until 
we  had  almost  reached  the  road,  that  Psyche 
looked  back,  and  made  us  realize  that  our  pine 
was  hidden  from  sight. 

"  Saying  good-bye,"  she  remarked,  "  is  but  the 
symbol  of  a  brief  interval  of  time  that  takes  place 
in  our  lives.  Here,  will  the  snows  lie  deep  in  a 
few  short  weeks.  But  there  will  be  warmth  un- 
derneath. Absence  is  but  a  current  of  electricity 
making  a  void  in  the  air ;  the  waves  of  air  part  but 
to  meet.  T'h  ""^  ^^'^e^  >f  our  greeting  will  be 
terrifically  happy.  Can  we  doubt  that  the  Spring 
is  far  behind?  And  our  grove  tct-''  ^v  'lere.^i^^o  be 
our  temple  again,  in  which  to  v 
can  poets." 

"  And  Laurel  Farm  the  hospital  place  of  rest 
and  dreams  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Psyche  replied.  "  I  would  like  to  think 
it  was  so." 

THE    END 


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